


Pride's Folly

by circadian_rythm



Series: Pride's Folly [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dread Wolf's Daughter, Elvhen Pantheon, Evanuris, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Tresspasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circadian_rythm/pseuds/circadian_rythm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I do not care so much what I am to others as I care what I am to myself.” --Michel de Montaigne</p>
<p>Solas has spent his entire life trying to distance himself from his namesake, and yet only seems to sink further into its design the more he struggles. </p>
<p>His daughter wishes to be nothing like the man who shares her eyes and whose name also means pride. But she is her father's daughter, despite her desire to be anything but.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bellum Domesticum

**Author's Note:**

> Bellum domesticum – strife/war among family members

She awakens slowly to the distant roar of water and whispers in the back of her skull.

If she tries to focus on them they go silent and it is unsettling. As if something lingers within her where it should not. There is an ache in her stomach, and her skin tingles. She cannot shake off the tingling. It is like that time she’d sat on the floor for too long in Skyhold and she’d tried to stand, only to find her leg had fallen asleep. It is not painful, but it is not pleasant either. And it settles under her skin like it is meant to be there, tiny pinpricks of _something_ dancing in her veins.

All her senses seem stronger. Her eyesight is clear and sharp, magnified, and there are odd sparkles of something that seem to dance at the edge of her vision. It makes her feel twitchy. When she inhales, she finds she can smell more than she should. Layers of scents that are subtle and not something she has ever noticed before.

The air is cool, and she wonders if that is because she is currently devoid of any clothing. She glances down to where her bare skin disappears beneath the heavy furs that cover the bed. They are soft and warm and comforting. They smell like rain-soaked earth. She reaches down and presses them to her face and breathes it in, if only because she must do _something_.

Her mind is trying to make sense of everything, to explain where she is and why. This is not her room in Fortitude, with its thick Orlesian drapes and dark-stained furniture. This is no Fade dream of her bedroom in Skyhold, or her small room in the Hanged Man. She has never seen this place before.

The room is cavernous, with a high arched ceiling covered in detailed stone carvings. She does not know the story they tell, and she does not linger on it. It is something that involves wolves, and a forest, and she does not want to think of wolves at the moment.

 There is a low table at the foot of her bed and a set of clothing is folded neatly atop it. It is not her clothing, she notices immediately, and as she glances around she cannot see her armor anywhere. The clothes are undeniably elvhen, and her lips curls a bit.

She has spent most of her life rejecting anything that reminds her of her father, and that meant wearing anything that even hinted at being elvhen. Her mother had protested when she’d refused even Dalish dress, but she had remained stubborn on that front.

If she weren’t in an unknown location with no idea of what danger she was in, she would likely chance going nude, if only to prove a point.

But where _is_ she? She presses the heel of her palms over her eyes so hard she sees stars, cursing as she tries to remember. The last thing she remembers…she just needs to focus on that. A battle of some sort. Yes. Outside of Val Royeaux.

Her hands drop uselessly to her lap.

 _Oh_. She presses her fingers to the skin of her stomach. It is unmarred, merely tender. Snapshots of memory flicker in her mind. The feeling of her father’s armor against her cheek. Ancient elvhen words whispered above her. Burning hot with fever. A cool hand on her forehead, an anchor in a world made of flames.  

Her father has taken her somewhere and healed her. She is angry and more than a little afraid. She does not know where she is or why he has brought her here. Daughter? He may have called her that, but she knows that means nothing.

He called her mother his heart and still he killed her.

She does not know why he has kept her alive but she must find some way of returning to her people. How had the battle gone after she had fallen unconscious? Had they retreated? Were they alright? Had he killed Cullen while she had lain there, unconscious? No, she cannot think along those lines. Cannot allow grief to take her yet.

She must be calm and _think_.

The first thing she needs to do is get dressed. The clothing consists of a pair of silken cream tights and a long, high-collared tunic the color of spring roses embroidered with golden thread.

She _hates_ pink.

She pulls it on anyway, buttoning the small clasps that run the length of the chest; they are shaped like small leaves, and here is a pair of slippers in the same bright gold. Altogether the outfit is garish. The clothes even _smell_ like roses.

It allows her to move freely but offers little protection, and the shoes are not made for travel. Useless.

She will need a weapon.

Her magic is still buzzing, stronger and more acute than she’s ever felt it. She supposes this must be a side-effect of the rending of the veil. The magic in the air is heavy, like walking through syrup, and her own is sharper and there is still that _other_ something inside of her that she cannot explain.

She will use her magic if she must but she will feel far safer and in control with a blade in hand. She heads toward the bookcases alongside the far wall and the small writer’s desk in front of them. After shuffling through the drawers she finds a small penknife next to a box of goose feathers. It is thin and is of no use if she can’t hit an artery, but she feels better with the weight in her hand.

She tucks it into her sleeve, the handle pressed against her pulse, as she continues her perusal. There is a pair of heavy wooden doors directly across from her bed, and when she pushes them open they swing open easily on well-oiled hinges.

She finds herself on a large balcony overlooking a mountain valley. The view is breathtaking. The keep is made of gray stone the color of dull iron and built into the side of a mountain. A monstrous stone causeway crosses over the waterfall to the keep’s left and disappears into the forest beyond. She is situated in a large tower at the far end. She leans out over the edge and her hand brushes cold granite.

Below her she sees elvhen walking across battlements and courtyards, as tiny as ants from her perch. Yet somehow her heightened sight allows her to see every small detail. The alpine air is crisp and clean and cold and she shivers. This is definitely not Arlathan.

It reminds her of Skyhold, in a way. As if someone has described its general shape to the builder and told them to make it larger.

Nostalgia settles in the pit of her stomach, and it does not settle well.

She is too high up to jump, and the rock wall to her left is bare of handholds. There is no way she can climb it without assistance. Before she begins her search for another escape route the door at the far end of the chamber opens. She stiffens and steps away from the open door and back into the room.

An elf enters, carrying a delicately woven basket. She is short and plump, with brown eyes and copper hair braided in a crown atop her head and she is dressed in a gown far less ostentatious than Spero’s own clothing. The vallaslin of Sylaise covers her face in dark blue against her pale skin. She stops a few feet away when she realizes that Spero is awake.

Her expression is guarded but gentle as she speaks.

Spero’s eyes narrow. “I do not speak your tongue.” She manages. It is a lie, a bit. She knows words, a few phrases, but she hates the language all the same and refuses to give in on that front. Besides, it is not enough to understand what the woman says. The other woman watches her for a few more moments before she nods, says something else, and places the basket on the ground next to a large chair.

The elf then gestures in the air to her right and something flickers, taking form. A butterfly lands on her finger and she speaks to it—Spero hears “Fen’Harel”—and the butterfly flutters out of the room and out of sight.

The elf woman then settles herself down in the chair and pulls out handful of herbs from the basket and begins to calmly weave them together into a braided knot.

Spero bites the inside of her cheek. She knows this woman must work for her father, which makes her dislike her on principle. But she tries her hardest not to dislike people without getting to know them, and to be polite to them even if she isn’t fond of them. Josephine would never let her hear the end of it if she was rude simply because the other woman was an elf.

She wonders why someone wearing Sylaise’ vallaslin is serving her father. Why does the woman have vallaslin in the first place? They were slave markings, and that was what her father had presumably been against. Had he had a change or heart? Or perhaps she was not in his holdings at all. Though she does not understand why Sylaise of all the evanuris would find any reason to house her, Sylaise being the supposed goddess of all things domestic notwithstanding.

It seems so odd, to see this elf woman doing something as mundane as making herb sachets. With all of their magic, she had figured they had created spells to do that kind of work for them. But the woman continues braiding the thin leaves of a plant that Spero does not recognize, humming softly to herself. Every once and a while she glances up at Spero to keep track of her movements.

Perhaps to see if she will try and escape? Spero isn’t foolish. This room has one exit, which makes it far more defensible if she needs to barricade it than any room she’s likely to find in her mad dash toward freedom.

Perhaps it would be best to hurl herself out the window. She would die instantly from the impact. Clean and quick. It is a far kinder alternative to the torture and possible execution she knows she will find at the hands of these elvhen.

She is alone and more than a little afraid. It is hard to feel brave when there is nothing standing between you and the thing you fear most but a few swaths of silk and a penknife. She should go into the room to the far side of the chambers. It is smaller. But there are no windows, and there is no way she would make it to the balcony in time if she needs to end it.

That is what Leliana would do, if the situation looked inescapable.

She feels like pacing, but she does not want to appear nervous to the woman humming in the chair next to the fireplace. She needs to look in control, even if she is not.

She will not show them how afraid she is.

The door to the main chamber opens for a second time and the man who shares her eyes crosses the threshold.

Her father walks into the room and she has to physically keep herself from attacking him. It has been so long since she’s felt such all-consuming hatred. Ever since the war began her emotions have become muffled. They are still there but pushed far, far down where they can’t interfere with what she needs to do. When her mother died, she’d realized she couldn’t let herself feel strongly, not when the chances were that everyone she loved would soon follow.

It had helped her cope with Bull’s death, and Josephine’s slow withering away from the sickness that had entered her lungs and refused to leave, making it impossible for her to walk across a room without coughing blood into a handkerchief. So she is surprised and thrown off-kilter when she sight of her father’s face stokes the flowing embers of her rage into a wildfire.

The slow burn of her hatred has lived in her for as long as she can remember, since she’d learned of the wolf who shared her eyes; she has carefully tended it over the years, a promise made to herself to feel all the righteous fury she could, the anger her mother refused to feel. It had been a self-imposed burden.

He sees the look on her face—she is not trying to hide it—and his own mouth tilts, brow furrowed in pain. He is hurt by her hatred. _Good_ , she thinks. Good. Let him feel pain. He turns and speaks to the female elf and she says something back, slipping out of the room with her basket.

 _You promised her you wouldn’t hate him_ , Spero reminds herself, but she pushes it aside. She has no use for those words now. Not when he is real and standing before her. Besides, in all likelihood he is here to kill her. To use her for something. He only knows how to use and deceive and destroy.

“Are you well?” He finally asks, and she can see the uncertainty in his stance.

What to say to that? So simple a question. Polite. Aloof. And she wonders if he means physically or emotionally. _No_ , she wants to say. _I will never be well. You have destroyed everything I love and you do not care because you think it is worth it. And I don’t know why you have brought me here._

“I will live.” She says at last, looking down at her stomach. She should have died, she knows. But she doesn’t feel particularly thankful. There was always a reason behind her father’s decisions. He spared people only to further his own agenda.

He nods stiltedly. “I know.” He glances at the open door leading out to the balcony. “Is there anything you require?”

What does he want? Does he think he can make her comfortable and gain information about the Inquisition and its allies from her? Of course. That must be it. “Did you kill him?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Cullen.” She snaps. “You were trying to kill him.” How he answers now will decide what she does with the penknife in her sleeve, she thinks.

“No.” He clasps his hands behind his back and she swallows. It is an action she does often when she is thinking. “I did not kill him.” He turns away from the balcony to face her again. “He raised you?” He says it nonchalantly, as if he is commenting on the weather.

“If you kill him, I will crush you.” She promises darkly. It is foolhardy to threaten him, she knows. He is too powerful for her to be saying such things to. When she had been younger she had imagined this moment a thousand times over. Her righteous anger, shouting at him, telling him about all the things he has done that she has hated him for. But she is older now, and not stupid. He is not someone who will change because of a child’s tears.

He seems prepared for her anger but no less affected by it. He winces at her tone. He does not promise he will spare Cullen. Well, at least he refuses to lie about his cruelty.

“I will tell you nothing.” She continues, because she has threatened him and there is little else that can make this worse on her end. “You will gain no useable information from me about troop movements, or tactics. I would suggest you rid yourself of me now and save us both the trouble. I have been trained to withstand torture, both magical and mundane, so there is little chance such tactics will work.” It is bravado. She is scared, scared of what he intends for her because she has heard the stories, knows how single-minded he is in accomplishing his goals, and she is certain that he will crush her with little effort. She is a fly again, waiting to be swatted.

If they try to apprehend her, she can at least end her own life before the evanuris can learn anything from her.

He looks horrified at her words. As if she has broken his heart, somehow. But he does not have a heart, so she is a bit confused.

“You believe…” He begins, pauses, then tries again. “You believe I mean to kill you.”

“It is what you do.” She can’t help the scorn there, even if she is still afraid.

The words seem to strike him like a physical blow and he almost looks ashamed. Almost. He is too arrogant for shame. Too proud. “I will not harm you.” He states, and it sounds like a vow. “I will not.”

She scoffs. _You already have_. But there is no reason to argue with him. She does not know why he cares about her safety at all. He has never met her and therefore cannot love her. He has only ever loved— _ah_. That is it then. She has been told she looks a bit like her mother, though she has never seen it. She has only ever seen the wolf looking back at her in her mirror.

“I am not my mother.” She begins awkwardly. “So there is no need to feel…” she stops, snorts, mouth twisting in a sneer. “No, not even for her, it never mattered. Love means nothing to you. Keep your empty promises, Dread Wolf.”

He closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath. “Ask for anything within reason and it will be granted to you. You may move freely throughout the keep.”

It is her turn to blink. She does not know what reasoning he has for this kindness. Possibly another ploy to lower her guard. “I wish to leave.”

There, a pained smile flickers across his lips. Gone in the next moment. “Within reason, ma’ ashalan.”

She hates those words coming from his mouth. How dare he use them? He is not her father. She has had many fathers but there are no wolves among them. _He is not her father._ The hot anger rises again, replacing the fear for the moment. He will never harm her? His very existence is an open wound in her chest.

He must see it on her face, her seething hatred. He nods at her, “I will leave you for now.” He turns toward the door and pauses one final time. “What shall I call you?”

She vaguely remembers him calling her name in a fevered moment of consciousness. She does not know how he knows it, but she is grateful he does not use it now. Only her mother has called her by that name. She is the only one who is allowed and she is dead.

Spero is quiet for several moments, trying to decide what to tell him. She could give him a fake name, something irrelevant that has no meaning to her. That would be the best course of action. She could say nothing. That would be easiest. “Spero,” she murmurs finally. “They call me Spero.” There is no need to explain who “they” are.

He nods again, searching her face for something. She wonders if he knows Arcanum. If he knows what her name means. “I will speak with you again, Spero.”

She jumps a bit at the sound of it coming from him. So familiar a word from foreign lips. She does not like it, the way he says it like it is some treasure or secret he has obtained. She does not like how nice it sounds in the silence between them.

Then he is gone, and she stares at the closed door of her chambers, more unsettled then she has ever been in her entire life.

\---

Over the next couple of hours she searches her rooms from top to bottom for anything useful and finds that it is all decorative and superfluous. She supposes that makes sense. They know she is dangerous and will try and escape. They will not give her anything that will aid her in that regard.

She goes back to the balcony and watches the elves go about their business below her and contemplates attempting to scale the side anyway, despite there being no visible handholds. All of her escape plans end with her dead, somehow, so she decides she will need to wait until she has more knowledge of the layout before she attempts it.

And rope. She will need rope.

In her hunt for weapons she finds a bathing room attached to her chambers. A rectangular pool carved into the stone runs the length of it, and tendrils of steam rise from its surface. Magic, she assumes, because it does not have the sulfur smell of a natural hot spring. In fact, it smells like flowers. She does not know what kind, but the floral scent permeates the room.

One wall is covered completely in glass and stone shelves lined with bottes of all sizes and colors. Their labels are written in elvhen so she can only assume they are scented oils and soaps. A small bench along the far wall is stacked with towels.

She does not need a bath, she knows, but she undresses and enters the water anyway. She _loves_ baths. She takes far too many of them, really. It is the only time she has ever allowed herself to indulge in something. Leliana and Josephine had surprised her on her seventeenth birthday with an ornate Orlesian tub big enough for three people and she’d spent four hours soaking in it that night until she’d been nothing but water-logged wrinkles.

The only thing she loves more than baths are swords, and she doubts her father will give her one despite his odd request that she ask for anything she wants. _Within reason_ , she grimaces as she slides down into the water until it brushes against her chin.

It is pleasantly warm but Spero has always loved her water scalding. She trails her fingers beneath the surface, calling fire to her palm. It does not take long for the water to heat and her skin takes on the color of a cooked lobster. She leans her head against the rim of the pool and closes her eyes.

She breathes in once, twice, and feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

She is still afraid. Afraid this is all a cruel joke and any moment now he will send in more elvhen to question her, or kill her, or do any number of cruel things her mind begins to conjure up.

This is absurd. Her family could be _dying_ —could be dead, just because her father says he did not kill Cullen does not mean he has not ordered someone else to—and she is safe and sound. This is not right.

They must be worried. Cassandra will blame herself. She always does. She will say she was not fast enough and take it all onto herself. Leliana will be the steady anchor. She will send out her spies, perhaps some of the Dalish to cross the barrier to see what they can learn. She will explain that Solas has not killed her yet, that he has kept her alive for some reason so they cannot give in to grief yet.

Josephine’s health cannot take this kind of strain. She is too weak to worry. She needs to know that Spero is alive. Josephine will _die_ if she doesn’t get word to her. Varric will come back from Kirkwall to learn she is gone and think it is somehow his fault for not being there when it happened.

And Cullen—Cullen is probably dead already. The allied forces of the Inquisition, Qunari, Tevinter Imperium, and the Free Marches will suffer with the loss of their forward commander. Cullen is probably lying cold and still on some faraway battlefield beside Blackwall’s sword and it is her fault.

She is sobbing, tears coursing down her cheeks somehow hotter than the water around her. They will all be so _worried_ and _she is sitting in a fucking bath_. She curses at herself, pushes out of the water and furiously rubs one of the towels over her arms until the skin begins to chafe.

She hears a soft sigh and turns to see the plump elf from before. She wonders at how she must look: a tall, naked woman sobbing into a towel. Her hair is a sopping wet mess pulled over one shoulder, dripping onto the stone at her feet. She is not a pretty crier. Her eyes get puffy and her nose runs. She is a mess and she doesn’t care, or _shouldn’t_ because this woman and her opinion means nothing to her.

The woman pads over to her and gathers her into her arms. Spero stiffens, but the woman begins to murmur to her in ancient elvhen and she finds herself sobbing into her shoulder as the woman runs a hand up and down Spero’s back. She smells like lemongrass and she’s soft and comforting and Spero can’t understand a word she says and hates _everything_ this woman stands for and yet she clutches at her like she’s the only thing holding her upright.

Spero forgets, sometimes, that she’s still a child who was forced to grow up too quickly. She wants to be an adult so that she can be in control, like everyone else seems to be. But she isn’t. She’s an emotional wreck and she’s so so _scared_.

She doesn’t want to die.

They stay that way for several minutes, until Spero collects herself and realizes that she’s soaked the front of the other woman’s dress with her hair. She swallows, opens her mouth to apologize, but does not know what to say. She knows the words, but she hates them. Has always hated them. They only bring pain.

Perhaps the other elf understands. She grabs the towel from where it has fallen into Spero’s lap and begins to pat her hair dry, humming. Spero watches her. Where is the proud, elitist elf she expected? She is supposed to hate the elvhen simply for existing. She cannot stand this comforting woman who smells like a chantry garden and treats her like a fragile object she fears will shatter.

There is food on the small table beside the fire, she notices, when she allows the woman to lead her from the bathing chambers. She slumps into it and stares for a few minutes, trying to decide if it is worth it or not to attempt to eat. It could be poison, she supposes, or laced with something to make her tongue loose and her mind wander.

But if that is so, the only person to hear her words is an elf who can’t understand them. Or perhaps that is also a lie. Perhaps she speaks the trade tongue fluently and is merely waiting to see if Spero will say something she thinks no one else will understand.

Her stomach growls.

Paranoia and distrust are tiring, but necessary, she knows. Sometimes it is best to accept that there is nothing that can be done with a situation. She is hungry and weak so she needs to eat. If they mean to poison her then so be it. She hopes it is quick, but she doubts it will be. And if they wish to question her and have used something to make her talk, she can only pray that no one understands her words or that she says nothing important.

She eats absently, but the food tastes like ash and her stomach roils with each mouthful. Still, she manages to finish everything that was set before her, even a glass of wine too rich and sweet for her liking. It is something Fenris would like, she supposes. He and Dorian had often argued about wines, when Fenris wasn’t throwing barbed insults and threats at him for being a Tevinter magister.

She prefers ale. Cheap, disgusting, melt-paint-off-the-walls ale that Bull had shipped in special. She likes the burn down her throat.

But she has no ale. Only sickeningly sweet wine that clings to her mouth and down her throat. She can’t seem to get rid of the taste no matter how hard she swallows. The elf with Sylaise’ vallaslin has left after braiding her hair, and the room is too large for one person as night begins to fall.

The shadows become large and deafening as she slips beneath the furs with nothing but a penknife tucked under her pillow.

She is afraid to sleep. What will the Fade be like here, on this side of the barrier? Does it exist at all? How does one dream without a place to dream _in_?

And what if she wakes up to find herself not in a warm bed but chained to a wall in some cold dungeon? What is she supposed to do here, now that she is trapped? All she has are questions and no one to answer them.

It is frustrating and more than a little terrifying. She covers herself in fur pelts not to keep out the chilling cold—the fireplace exudes an almost blistering heat—but to protect herself from the crushing emotions that threaten to engulf her and to keep out the images of wolves that flicker on the ceiling in the firelight.

She does not sleep well.

She wakes up three times in the middle of the night to phantom demons clinging to her ankles. The whispers in her skull hiss cruel things to her, urging her to get up, to take, to bite and rend and force submission to all in her path. And when she refuses they show her images of her family. Cullen’s body lying in a battlefield, eyes gouged out by the crow sitting atop his lion helmet. Leliana chained up to a wall in an unknown dungeon like in the story Varric had told her of Redcliff. Josephine coughing, and coughing, and coughing, her handkerchief dripping crimson now, shoulders shaking because she cannot stop. Sera impaled on the claws of a Pride demon as she shoves Merrill through the eluvian. Blackwall’s head rolling across the courtyard away from his body, eyes open and unseeing. Dorian and her mother being torn apart by whatever magic they’d unleashed to create the barrier. Her mother catches her eye and opens her mouth and _screams_ —

The third time she leans over the side of the bed and vomits onto the flagstones.


	2. A fronte praceipitium a tergo lupi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fronte praceipitium a tergo lupi – “a precipice in front, wolves behind” similar to “between a rock and a hard place”

She wakes to find the vomit cleaned from the floor and breakfast set out for her on her small table. The first thing she does is drain the water pitcher to wash the sour taste of last night’s puke from her mouth.

She does not have much of an appetite but she eats what she can stomach. There is far too much food for one person anyway; too many dishes. As if whoever brought them wanted to make sure there was at least something she would like. Is it an attempt to make her feel at ease?

After she eats she washes her face and looks disdainfully at the clothing set at the foot of her bed. There are two sets this time, a tunic and leggings similar to what she wore the other day and a dress. Both are in varying shades of green. It is a step up from pink, at least. She takes the tunic and leggings over the dress. Dresses are harder to maneuver in, and she hasn’t worn one for what feels like ages.

Her life has been a constant battle for survival. Dresses do not fit well into that scheme. Dorian and Vivienne—and surprisingly Leliana—had enjoyed dressing her up and buying her things, and she certainly hadn’t minded as a child. But the opportunities for such frivolities had waned, and there has been no need for them after her mother’s passing.

She grimaces as she stares at herself in the mirror, buttoning up the neck of the elaborate tunic jacket. Her braid is mussed from tossing and turning in her sleep and stray curls are escaping their confines. It is nearly impossible for her to keep them in place on a good day, and this does not promise to be such a day. She has almost finished when she pauses, eyes widening.

It is gone.

Her necklace is gone.

She presses her hands frantically to her neck, just to see if perhaps it is hidden behind the high collar, and then she realizes she did not have it the day before when she bathed. She had forgotten to check, because it had been with her so long she has never worried it would not be there.

It is _gone_.

She swallows, feeling anger begin to burn again in the pit of her stomach. It had settled the night before, dampened by her terror and nightmares and weariness, but it is building again. That necklace belongs to her. It is _hers_.

She ties the embroidered sash tightly around her waist, seeing red as she slips on a new pair of slippers and storms out of her rooms.

She expects a guard detail at her door, but the hallway outside of her chambers is empty and quiet. Does her father not see her as a threat at all? No, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is finding him and demanding answers.

There is only one other room in the hall. It is full of potted plants and a few low-sitting couches. A parlor of some sort. She only glances around the room briefly before she heads back down the hall to the other end and the lone, narrow stairwell that leads down to the rest of the keep.

The stairs lead to another hallway, this one larger than the one outside her chambers. It is lined with archways that lead into other rooms and passageways, and there are a few elvhen milling around them. They do not try to approach her, but she feels their eyes on her as she walks past them toward the large entryway on the other side of the hall.

It opens to a cavernous rotunda covered in painted murals. She recognizes the art style immediately. It is painted by the same hand that decorated Skyhold and she swallows. No one had given her an answer when she’d asked who had painted the pretty pictures around the hold.

Now she knows why.

She tears her gaze from the artwork when she notices that there is more than just elvhen in the rotunda. Flickering in and out of her vision, some more solid than others, are several spirits. She knows that in the past, before the veil separated this world from the Fade, that spirits existed side by side with the elvhen. It should not surprise her that they do so again now that the veil does not exist here.

She wonders briefly of the demons that had existed in the Fade when the veil was destroyed. Where had they gone? Surely they did not simply disappear. But there are only spirits now, not a demon in sight.

Or perhaps the demons simply wear better disguises now.

She also entertains the idea that one of these spirits could somehow get a message to the Inquisition for her through the Fade. Or are they tied to the people here? _Would_ they help her? Surely there is some spirit out there that would feel the need to do so. A spirit of kindness or compassion or helpfulness.

Or pity.

The spirits she has met in her fade dreams have always taken on other forms. Perhaps because her mind had not known what form to give them. But these spirits are in their natural state, a multitude of shapes and colors and all brimming with magic.  

She wonders if the elves worry about the spirits twisting into something else. Even those with good intentions can lead to terrible ends. She knows the story of Anders and the spirit of justice that became vengeance. Varric had told her the story once, and then Hawke had told it years later, from a different view, and Spero had almost pitied the apostate who had destroyed so that others could live. Who had taken the role of villain onto himself to champion for others.

Almost.

The story had echoed too close to home for anything more. She refuses to see the man behind the villain. Despite his so-called just cause, those innocent people were still dead. No amount of groveling or self-loathing or excuses will bring them back. How does the saying go, apologies mean nothing to a dead bat?

Besides, she feels nothing for anything or anyone at the moment but anger. Her sword and armor she can understand, in hindsight. They are things she could use to harm those that live here, to harm _him_. But that necklace held no power other than sentimental meaning. It has been with her for as long as she can remember.

This is a violation she will not stand for.

She turns back to the paintings as she walks along the outer edge of the rotunda. Even though she knows their source it doesn’t stop her from appreciating the style, or the small warmth that she’d felt as a child when she’d traced the painted designs on the walls. She’d loved those paintings. She unconsciously reaches out to touch the portion of wall closest to her. The paint is cool beneath her fingertips. It stymies her anger for a moment, but the comfort she’d once felt looking at those designs and imagining the artist who had worked on them so lovingly is fading fast.

It seems she will never have anything precious that isn’t tinged with bitterness.

Her father has ruined this as well.

She turns away, because it is hard to be angry at something so pretty, and she needs to find her father and demand answers. Things would be much simpler if she spoke ancient elvhen. It is the first time that she wishes she knew the language. She doubts any of the elves here know the trade tongue or any other mortal language. It would probably be beneath them to do so.

Do spirits need a language to communicate? She’d always assumed it was more about intent. Languages in dreams don’t seem very important. Perhaps one of them will be able to tell her where he is. Or at the very least confirm whether or not they serve her father.

The spirits have been watching her curiously since her arrival in the rotunda. She wonders if they have been warned not to approach her. She spots one further away from the others. It is milling beneath a large tapestry a few meters away, brushing against the tassels hanging from it with wispy tendrils that could be considered fingers.

She doesn’t trust spirits, but at the moment they seem the lesser of two evils. Spirits, after all, do not seem inherently inclined to want to destroy and dominate all she holds dear. Perhaps one of them will be like Cole: innocent, gentle, eager to help.

She does not think that this world can sustain a spirit of compassion anymore. This world is too cruel for that. She tries not to think about it as she heads toward the spirit. If she is going to gather information or find a way to escape she cannot let herself be taken in by despair and hopelessness. She is the daughter of the Inquisitor and the Inquisition. She was raised by the greatest warriors, mages, and minds of Thedas and she will find a way to turn this situation to her advantage. She will make them proud.

That is when her father enters the room on the opposite side with a tall, white-haired elf with Mythal’s vallaslin in green upon his face.

Abelas.

She knows of Abelas, though she has never met him before. One of her father’s generals, an old guardian of Mythal’s temple. His name means sorrow, and it certainly seems to fit. He gives off the feeling of sadness that has reached its lowest point, where it hinges between despair and apathy. His dour expression does not change as he spots her.

She does not care. She has no need to be kind to him, and she is not feeling overly kind to anyone at the moment. She strides across the large antechamber toward them, ignoring the gazes of the other elves and spirits. The one she had been walking toward before has hid itself fuly behind the tapestry, a small bulge near the bottom of the frabic.

Her father spots her and gives her a soft smile. It twists her gut to see it, and she clenches her hands hard into fists. She can feel her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms and it hurts, but it grounds her. It keeps her from lashing out.

“Have you thought of anything I can give you?” He asks as she stops two feet in front of him.

“Give it back.” She hopes she doesn’t sound desperate. Her ears are ringing from her anger, so she cannot be certain. She wants to hit him. She wants to crack his jaw and send him sprawling to the ground. She digs her nails deeper into her palms and she feels the skin break.

She can hear people moving away from them, perhaps by some unspoken command from her father, whose smile is gone now. Only Abelas remains, eyes trained on her, gaze cool.

“What is it that I have taken?” Her father looks calmly at her, his mask back in place. He had slipped last night, shown her that she had affected him, but she doubts that it will happen again.

“My necklace.” She manages through clenched teeth. “It was taken from me.” It was the only Dalish thing she has ever owned. Carved by her mother’s hands when she had two of them, before Spero had been born. Before she had met the Dread Wolf and he had devoured her heart. When she had been young and free and happy. From a time before all of this, a time that Spero will never know.

Solas blinks, looking slightly taken aback. All this fuss over a necklace? She sees the thoughts clearly on his face. “You wore no necklace.”

Impossible. She never took it off. She had _promised_ herself she would make a world fit for that necklace again. _Vengeance,_ something whispers in the depths of her heart. _You have vowed revenge for all the wrongs done to you and yours. He wants to stop you from completing your task._

But more than the anger of a vow broken, she just wants her mother’s necklace. She hasn’t told anyone, but she has started to forget the sound of her mother’s voice. Her face has become blurred along the edges. It terrifies her. She needs something that she will not forget.

“It is my mother’s.” Her voice cracks. “ _Please_.” She hates begging. To give him power over her, leverage of any kind. He will use this against her she is certain. Ask for something in return. Perhaps he knows it belongs to her mother. Perhaps through some perverse longing he wants to keep it as a memento for himself.

He has no right to her things. He has taken enough from her.

He reaches for her but she quickly steps back. He has _no right_ _to touch her_. If he thinks that calling her daughter changes their relationship, then he is a fool.

There is a long, stagnant pause before his hand lowers and he places it behind his back. He gives a curt nod, more to himself than for her benefit. “I will see if anyone knows of the necklace.”

She doesn’t say anything. If he expects a thank you he will be waiting for a very long while. But it douses her anger a bit. The fury becomes manageable. It no longer feels like she is bursting at the seams with it. Her fists loosens, and she lets her hands fall to her side. Her fingers ache, and her palms throb, each tiny cut of her fingernails pulsing with her heartbeat. She doesn't like this odd rage she feels. She hates being so angry all the time. It is tiring to hold it back. 

“Walk with me?” He asks, but it is a command, most assuredly. She wants to refuse. It would be satisfying to walk away from him and deny him even this. She wants to so badly. To lock herself in her chambers and scream into her pillow until she’s sick.

Instead she falls into step beside him. She needs to learn the keep’s layout and perhaps he will let some pertinent information slip that she can get to the Inquisition. She can’t waste the opportunity, even if she despises the company. Solas seems surprised by her quick agreement, but he does not comment as they walk. Abelas trails behind like a shadow.

Her father is intelligent enough to know she is not walking with him because she enjoys it.

“So you are a mage?” He inquires as they exit the rotunda and enter a vast hallway. It is lined with windows that reach from floor to ceiling. She admires the designs etched into the frames so that she does not have to look at him.

“Yes.” It must have been fairly obvious when she’d tried to electrocute him.

He nods again, looking almost pleased. “You showed remarkable control. Lightning is a difficult element to channel, as it is quite unpredictable.”

She doesn’t reply. She’d never enjoyed magic, for obvious reasons, but she had known she was borderline competent at it. She will use any advantage in battle she can, even if she detests its source. Dorian had cultivated her interest in lightning, telling her that her father had never used it. It is the only real school of magic she knows or has any control over. 

That has been the prevailing decision-making process of her life: would her father do this? It is how she makes most choices. She comes up with her own independent decision and then weighs it against what she knows of him. If the two coincide she goes with the opposite immediately. It frightens her how often that is the case.

She is too like him in temperament and thought. It isn’t safe.

“You have not tried to use your magic since your arrival here.” He comments offhandedly. Does he want a demonstration? Perhaps to learn the extent of her power?

“I hate magic.” She answers honestly, because it is as close to saying that she hates him that she can manage safely. If she goes further the anger will rise again. The need to hurt him.

She promised her mother. The Dread Wolf didn’t keep promises or care about others, but she will not let herself be the same. She will not become him. “Where is my sword?”

“I did not take it when I found you.” Solas looks away. “I was preoccupied.” Found her, as if she is some errant cat abandoned on the roadside that he has saved and nursed back to health.

She looks out the window at the valley below. Mist clings to the forests still, and the air is sharp and fresh. She breathes in deeply. “And my armor?” Perhaps Cullen had grabbed it, if he was not lying on that battlefield as well. Or Krem or one of the other Chargers. She hopes so. Blackwall’s sword means the world to her.

“It was damaged beyond repair and so was disposed of.”

What a tidy and neat answer. She has heard of such tactics, removing everything familiar from the individual so they are thrown off balance, vulnerable to any kindness or consideration or sense of normalcy.

“I would like a sword.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to look nonchalant and uncaring. She leans forward and braces her forearms on the windowsill to keep herself from putting them behind her back. She glances down at her palms and the tiny self-inflicted wounds there. They have stopped bleeding, but her skin is red and bruised. There is blood under her fingernails.

“We shall see.”

Her breath hitches. He sounds like a patronizing adult speaking to a wayward child. She wishes to tell him so and remind him that he has no right to act like her father. But an emotional outburst would be childish and prove his point. She does not comment on the tone of his voice. “I wish to send a letter to my family.”

Ah, there, she gets some satisfaction out of the wince at the word “family” but his expression is gone in an instant. “We shall see.” He repeats, then pauses to watch her. “I will have to read them.”

She should be angry, she knows. He will give her no privacy. But the fact that he’s said it means he’s considering it, that she has a chance.

And he does not know the secret codes she has learned painstakingly from Leliana.

\---

She opens her eyes and finds herself assailed by inky darkness.

Her instincts tell her she is dreaming, but this place is nothing like she’s ever seen. She doesn’t think this is how the Fade here is supposed to work. If so, she doubts any of the Elvhen would ever sleep. It feels odd to her, and the whispering won’t stop.

She can’t see more than three feet in front of her and the air is thick and heavy. Each breath is a conscious effort. She takes a few steps forward and shivers. It is impossibly cold, like a night spent on the rooftop in Skyhold in winter, only she has no blanket to wrap around herself or a warm body to lean against.

In fact, from what she can see of her body it is bare. The stone beneath her feet is so cold it burns. The whispering in her skull is a constant pressure as she slowly inches forward in the darkness. She puts her hands out, trying to find a wall to use as a guide, but her fingers meet with open air on all sides.

She doesn’t know how long she walks in the darkness, moving forward in what she hopes is a straight line. If she keeps going in one direction she will eventually find a wall or a door. The cold is making her sluggish. She can’t summon any magic to light her way or warm herself.

That is the most troubling aspect, she thinks. She should be able to feel some form of magic here while she dreams. She tries not to be preoccupied with the pressure in her skull as she walks. It slithers behind her eyes, like a fresh catch of eels, and it makes her dizzy. If she tries to focus on the feeling for too long it becomes overwhelming. The best thing to do is ignore it.

The pitch blackness begins to lessen and a dim light flickers somewhere in the distance. She concentrates on the flickering and moves toward it.

She remembers going to bed early with a headache, probably from walking with her father around the keep.  It takes too much energy to keep herself from being cruel to him. Then she’d taken a bath and eaten the food that the plump elf had left for her before falling asleep.

And now she is here.

It is most definitely not the Fade. But what it is, exactly, she cannot say. As a child she’d learned early on how to wake herself from sleep in case something in the Fade went wrong. Dorian had drilled it into her early on. She can’t remember a time when she’d gone into the Fade without someone waiting for her on the other side. Dorian, Vivienne, Merrill…they’d always been with her. She’d realized rather quickly that it was because they feared her father might stumble across her there.

But she cannot wake herself now, and there is no one to help draw her out of this place.

At least it is getting easier to see as she nears the lights. She can make out the stones beneath her feet, and if she stares hard enough into the shadows around her she can discern darker patches and shapes. A few minutes later she finds herself standing in front of a torch burning with veil-fire. It paints the vicinity in a blue haze.

She reaches up to grab the torch from the wall but it won’t come free of its perch. She can make out another one burning further down. She looks around in the small bubble of light the torch provides. There are carvings along the walls, eerily similar to the ones on her ceiling in the waking world.

Do they tell some kind of story? If it is a wolf, is it about her father? He _is_ Fen’Harel after all. The Dalish tell tales of him eating spirits and souls that get lost in the Fade. Perhaps she has been devoured and sits in his stomach now, lost and alone and cold.

_“I will not harm you.” He states, and it sounds like a vow. “I will not.”_

She swallows. No, this is not her father’s doing, even if she does not trust his words. She doesn’t even know if there is any sinister intent here. At the moment she feels no presence but her own, and the air is cold and still.

The veil-fire provides no warmth, but she presses her hands up toward it anyway. The flames lick at her fingertips before they begin to flicker. She continues walking to the next torch. They must lead to somewhere after all, and there is nothing else she can do until she wakes up or finds a way out of this place.

The sconces are evenly spaced, but far enough apart that there are patches of shadow between them that leave her feeling uneasy. She quickens her pace.

The carvings on the walls begin to shift. Something moves out of the corner of her eye and she takes a step backwards. The wolves on the wall look alive somehow. The stillness in the air takes on a different quality.

The sound of claws skittering on stone echoes.

She is unarmed, even without her tiny ridiculous penknife. She looks backwards just as the first torch flickers weakly and goes out. A few moments later the next follows, and then the next. Spero takes another step back, heart hammering against her ribcage.

She bursts into a sprint as the next three go out in quick succession and the sound of ragged breathing cuts through the silence.

Her bare feet slap against stone and she hurdles forward into the unknown, past patches of veil-fire lit stone and shadow. The pressure in her skull is becoming unbearable. It is hard to tell, with the lack of light, but she thinks that her eyesight is going dim. She stumbles and catches herself, knee scraping against flagstones before she launches herself back up and forward.

She does not know what is chasing her, but she knows that she cannot let it catch her.

She needs to wake up. But how? She tries to pinch her arm, but the pain does little more than slow her down as she runs.

It is too close. It is going to catch her and eat her and she has failed, failed them all. She will die here and never see her family again, never keep her promise to her mother—she lets out a sob that echoes just as a wall erupts from the shadows in front of her and she slams into it headfirst.

Her eyes snap open and she lets out a choked cry, body lurching upward out of instinct. She grabs the penknife from beneath her pillow and glances around the room for an intruder. She is alone in her room, and the only sounds are her shallow pants and the crackling of the fire.

She leans back against the furs and sighs. That was…quite unpleasant. She wishes there were someone she could ask about it. The elvhen will know what it was, most likely, but what will be the cost of that information? What will she give away by speaking of it in the first place?

She glances up wearily at the ceiling and grimaces. The firelight flickers off of the stone carvings and all she can hear is the click of claws on stone and harsh panting in her ear. She closes her eyes and throws an arm over them.

She sleeps the rest of the night with the penknife securely in her right hand.

\---

She wakes up to find herself lying in a patch of sunlight from the open balcony doors, the furs shoved down to her hips and her fist buried in the sheets. The penknife is warm and solid in her other hand. She’s glad that she managed not to cut herself to ribbons during the night.

The mountain air is cool but not unbearably cold. There is a soft breeze filtering through from outside, and the sound of people talking drifts up with it. She cannot’ discern the words, but she listens in silence for a few minutes. Though the language is different, the situation is familiar.

“Good morning,” The plump elf greets her, holding a tray filled with bread and an assortment of cheeses. She places it on the small table next to a pitcher of fresh water that she must have brought while Spero was still sleeping.

Spero slips out of bed and makes it to the chair before she realizes that she had understood what the other woman had said.

“You know the trade tongue?” Spero asks. So she _had_ pretended not to know, then. Of course. But why give up that deceit now? She has not learned anything valuable from Spero up to this point.

“I asked a spirit to teach me.” The elf nods. “So that you would have someone to talk to.”

So she pities her. Pity is an emotion that makes Spero uneasy. People had pitied her as a child, growing up with only a mother during wartime, and then growing up without even that later on. Pity reminded her of the Orlesian nobility smiling behind fluttering fans. _“Poor lonely elf child, the Inquisitor left her all alone.” “What a shame, to be born now.” “A little flower with no sunlight to grow, a pity.”_

She hates pity, because it is unnecessary.

“My name is Eloen.” The elf introduces herself a few moments later. She is bustling around the room; she can’t seem to sit still. There isn’t much to clean or tidy up but she still finds ways to keep her hands busy as she waits for Spero to say something in return.

She wonders if they know her name already. How has Solas presented her to the rest of the elvhen here? Still, it seems rude not to introduce herself as well, even if Eloen already knows her name. “Spero.”

If Eloen thinks the name strange she says nothing on the subject. “I could teach you our language.” Eloen continues, straightening the furs on Spero’s bed.  “It is beneficial to know it.”

“I speak several languages.” Spero’s eyes narrow a bit. It is true. With the cadre of parents she has, it is no surprise that she can speak Orlesian, and Arcanum fluently, and knows conversational Qunari and Antivan. Her Rivaini leaves much to be desired. 

Eloen shrugs. “There is no need for several languages.”

“There are if you are not elvhen.” Spero defends. “The world does not belong to elves only.” She knows that it used to, or that the elves had believed it so. Eloen probably thinks the same. She has probably never bothered to learn about anything outside of Elvhenan and probably never will.

_Except that she has learned the trade tongue so that she could talk to you._

“You are an elf.” Eloen reminds her gently.

She knows and she hates it. But she also knows it is true…learning ancient elvhen would be useful if she wishes to gain any information for her family. “If you have the time to do so, I would appreciate your help.” She concedes.

Eloen smiles brightly, and looks far younger than she had before. “Of course, it would be my pleasure to aid Fen’Harel’s daughter.”

Spero grinds her teeth, but remains quiet. It is not something she can deny, even if she detests it. It is obvious that she is his kin. She has known that for far too long. No one will doubt it, if he has already made it public. There is no way anyone could look at the two of them and not know that they are related.

She absently pulls apart a chunk of bread, crumbling the pieces onto her plate. She doesn’t feel much like eating again. She knows that her lack of appetite isn’t healthy, but she cannot help it. The food, even when she is hungry, tastes strange. The flavors are too strong, even if the food is something naturally bland. Even simple bread is too rich for her stomach.

She supposes it is another side-effect of the rending of the veil, along with her heightened eyesight and hearing. Well, if she now has someone to speak with, she should start asking questions. She needs to understand the situation here and at Arlathan. “Why are you serving Fen’Harel?” She does not say father. She will never use that word aloud. “Your vallaslin is Sylaise’, is it not?”

“She sleeps still.” Eloen offers, looking momentarily troubled. Because she has given information away or because she cares for her mistress? “Fen’Harel is kind. He has allowed us to come here so that the other Evanuris cannot force us into service.”

“I thought he didn’t want servants.”

Eloen shrugs. “It is what we know. And it is fine. We are not slaves here. We can leave whenever we wish.” She pauses before she gives another tentative smile, “I volunteered to be the one to help you. There were many who wanted to curry favor with Fen’Harel by doing so, but he picked me as the best option.” She glows a bit at that. She’s proud of the fact that she was chosen to be someone’s servant.

Spero grimaces. She has had similar experiences in the Inquisition. Being the famed Inquisitor’s daughter, of the same lineage as the Herald of Andraste, there had always been those who had thought that by earning her favor they could gain some special status.

So that must be why Eloen had comforted her the day before, and why she is working so hard to be able to communicate with her now. If she solidifies a relationship with the Dread Wolf’s daughter, her status will benefit.

It should hurt Spero’s feelings, knowing that Eloen has done it out of nothing but her own self-interest. But it solidifies Spero’s knowledge of the ancient elvhen as thinking only of themselves and their own gain. It is almost comforting to know she was right and that she doesn’t have to see these people as anything more than what they are.

She knows where she stands with Eloen now, and that makes it easier to interact with her.

“You say she still sleeps, so not all of the Evanuris are awake?” It was true that in battle their forces had only encountered Andruil and Falon’Din, but they had always known that the others had been working in the background.

Eloen nods. “Aside from Fen’Harel, only four of the Evanuris are awake. The others were trapped in the Fade on the other side of the barrier the mortals made.” She shakes her head. “That is why so many of us have nowhere to go.”

Eloen talks so easily, as if she does not care what Spero learns. Then again, if her father has introduced Spero to his people as his daughter, Eloen and others will assume that she is their ally. She must think she is simply being a helpful servant. Spero feels a bit of guilt at that, but brushes it aside. This is war, she cannot afford to feel bad about learning all she can to help those she cares for. “Don’t you hate him for causing all of this in the first place?”

“Many people do.” Eloen says after a few moments of pensive silence. “But it is true that many of the Evanuris were harming our people more than they were helping them.”

Spero wonders if Sylaise was one of those that had harmed more than she’d helped. Eloen did not mention if she hates Fen’Harel or not. True, she has come here to serve under him, but it could be for her own personal reasons. Perhaps she is plotting revenge.

Did her father simply let these people in regardless of their past allegiances? How could he endanger his own household by welcoming people with unknown intentions who had every reason to abhor him?

It is _extremely_ foolish. Does he think that his own good-will can keep his people safe? Reckless. Irresponsible. It is something her mother would have done, welcoming possible enemies out of the kindness of her heart on the off-chance that they were sincere.

It is not something the Dread Wolf would do.

“Who are the Evanuris that are awake?” Spero takes a bite of cheese and winces at the sharp flavor. She washes the mouthful down with several gulps of water.

“Andruil, Ghilan’nain, Dirthamen, and Falon’Din.” Eloen’s smile twists into an uncomfortable grimace. “They did not take kindly to their imprisonment.”

No, she cannot imagine so. “How were they imprisoned originally?” Perhaps if she learns how her father did it, she can replicate it herself.

Eloen shakes her head. “I do not know. I do not remember it well. I only remember falling asleep and then awakening later when Fen’Harel tore down the veil.”

Spero wonders why Eloen had been put to sleep as well. Had all of the elvhen here been asleep all this time in the Fade? She supposes that many of them would have fought with the Evanuris they served and would have opposed Fen’Harel and his allies.

So he had extended the slumber to them as well…had it been intentional? And how did one put so many powerful mages to sleep at once?

“If you see someone with their vallaslin, do not go with them.” Eloen looks at her seriously, the smile gone from her face. “Tell someone immediately. The remaining Evanuris want your father gone. They will use you if they can.”

It seems to her that everyone wants to use her.

She doesn’t think Eloen needs to worry. Even if she hates her father, the other Evanuris are currently a larger threat to her family and the rest of Thedas. She knows fully well that they are not to be trusted, and there is no chance she will put herself in harm’s way so blatantly and irresponsibly.

Solas may have torn down the veil, and is the reason for her mother’s death, but the other Evanuris wish to conquer and enslave all that is left of the mortal realms. Her father will be held accountable for his actions and tried properly, but for now she must deal with those that are the immediate threat.

She needs more information.

“I will help you dress.” Eloen walks toward Spero’s armoire. “And then I will show you the gardens. They are very pretty, even in winter.” She pulls out a dress made of heavy fabric that Spero does not recognize. “I want to try braiding your hair differently today.”

The dress has some kind of built-in corset, strong and sturdy and more than a bit uncomfortable. The fabric is thick and warm, and by the time Eloen has finished with the multitude of clasps up the back of it Spero has begun to sweat. The cream-colored fabric is covered in thick beaded embroidery the color of dull rust. The entire thing doesn’t seem very elvish, but she cannot say she has much experience with the dress of ancient elves.

Perhaps the style is meant to be familiar, something she knows. It seems vaguely Orlesian, but with elements of other designs that she does not know. And the fabric is most definitely elvhen. She wonders how they know her measurements. Everything that has been given to her has fit perfectly. At home, especially in regards to formal wear, everything had been made special for her. She is tall for a modern elf, and she is slender but broad-shouldered; her arms are muscled from swordplay. Delicate things look out of place on her.

“Is this Fen’Harel’s only holding?”  An innocent enough question. Surely there is nothing suspicious about wanting to know that.

Eloen shakes her head as she unravels Spero’s braid and pulls out a comb. “Oh no, Eth’Durgen is relatively small. It is the most defensible of Fen’Harel’s holds. After the Awakening, the Evanuris’ old territories were redistributed. A lot of our land is on the other side of the barrier, including most of Falon’Din and Dirthamen’s original territory. We were very lucky that Arlathan was on this side of the barrier.”

Spero doesn’t say anything. The Awakening? Is that what the elvhen call the Rending? It sounds so peaceful and common. As if awakening from their slumber to the death throes of several kingdoms is something that happens often. It leaves a sour taste in the back of her throat. Her loved ones and countless others died for this. So that the mighty Evanuris could awaken from their naps and continue their quarrels over territory and power like a bunch of children.

“Is it true that there are mortals that wear vallaslin?” Eloen asks suddenly, working through a tangle. She seems intent on her work, but Spero sees her glance up curiously.

“They call themselves the Dalish.” Spero informs her. “And they are elves, like myself.” They also do not wear vallaslin anymore. When the war between the ancient elvhen and the rest of Thedas began, the Dalish had learned the hard truth about the ancestors they had once glorified. Many had scarred their own faces in order to obscure the marks. Several of the remaining Keepers had begun devising spells to remove the vallaslin magically. Only the Inquisition’s spies wore them openly now.

“No, you are elvhen.” Eloen shakes her head as she twists half of Spero’s hair up into an intricate knot. “You are immortal, like us. Even when your body was mortal your being was the same as ours, because of your father.”

Spero stills. “What do you mean?” Her voice sounds small, even to her own ears. She notices rather absently that Eloen is braiding the rest of her hair and pining it up around the knot, but she isn’t focused on anything, really, because her mind has gone utterly blank.

“You are fully elvhen now.” Eloen repeats proudly. “Your father made you immortal.” _You should thank him_ , seems to hang unspoken above their heads.

Immortal. Her father has made her immortal. It is hard to breathe. Her body…is this even _her_ body now? Or is it something built and crafted that her father has shoved her soul into? She is shaking, she realizes, when Eloen leads her over to her bed to sit before her legs give way and begins asking her what’s wrong.

“Can I go back?” She grabs onto Eloen’s shoulders and turns her so they are face to face. “Can I fix it?”

“Fix it? You were broken before, Fen’Harel has already fixed you.” Eloen frowns.

The anger in her is building again, hot and fierce. She will never age now. If her father keeps her here as his prisoner she will be forced to live an eternity watching her loved ones slaughtered, or, if they are lucky, die of old age. Even if she and the Inquisition manage to save the rest of Thedas from the elvhen she will outlive them, and their children, and their children’s children.

She will live on, alone.

She’s alone. She’s alone and she’ll always _be_ alone now. She promised her mother she would look after her father and now she’s trapped. She can’t escape this. She promised and now she’s trapped forever—

“—are you alright?”

She stumbles to her feet and nearly trips over the dress’ billowing skirts. She looks around the room wildly and grabs the vase from the side-table next to her bed and hurls it at the wall. It shatters, pieces of porcelain flying. A sliver cuts into her cheek. Eloen lets out a surprised yelp at the action and moves forward tentatively. “Spero?”

But Spero isn’t listening. She doesn’t hear Eloen’s next words, though she knows she’s speaking. She ignores her as the other woman kneels down to begin picking up the pieces of the broken vase. She slumps to her knees, staring blindly at the wall.

Eloen turns, “Oh! Your cheek!” She reaches out a hand to brush against the cut, just as Spero throws her head back and screams.

It is an animalistic sound, straight from her gut, as she doubles over. It lasts only for a few moments and then she is left dry-heaving over the flagstones, vision blurred by tears. Eloen is shaking her shoulders, trying to get her to look up, to tell her what’s wrong.

“Why did you make me promise? Why did you make me promise?” She gasps, lips brushing against cold granite, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

It is the first time she has ever felt anything other than love for her mother. Even after her mother had left her and sacrificed herself to stop her father’s spell she had not hated her. Even after her mother had continuously and stupidly loved her father despite everything he’d done to hurt them all she had not hated her.

But this feels like a betrayal. Some sick joke between the two of them. Her mother has forced her to live with and love the person she despises most in this world, and her father has forced her to do so forever in this new form.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” She sobs, as tears course down her cheeks and the cut stings and continues to bleed.

She remains there, limp and weak and broken, until her father arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies mean nothing to a dead bat: I don’t know how common this saying is. Basically, it means exactly that; apologies don’t mean anything to the dead because they can’t hear them and it won’t bring them back to life. 
> 
> Eth’Durgen: a direct translation is “safe stone”. 
> 
> If anyone has any suggestions from prompts for the vignettes that will accompany this story or any questions about it, feel free to ask here or on my [trumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justanartsysideblog).


	3. Solas POV 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas’ POV of chapter 1 & 2, mainly as a gift to [Valyrias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias/pseuds/valyrias), who has been very kind and encouraging of this story. Also, go read her works because they are amazing!

She sleeps for several days, and he finds himself at her bedside often. It is an odd thing, to know that he has a daughter; that the life before him is of his making. The healers flitter around the room but remain silent as they check her for any remaining poison and injuries.

A marvelous recovery, one comments, and the others agree with varying enthusiasm. Some are curious, and some are suspicious, but most of them are simply confused as to how someone on death’s door has suddenly become immortal. The suspicious and curious ones he sends away before they can search for answers. The befuddled ones do their job and leave as quickly as they can. Even if he _claims_ he is no evanuris his power makes them wary and afraid, and they remember the look on his face when they had failed to heal her.

He spends most of his waking hours watching her, deep in thought as he comes to terms with what must be done and his own turbulent emotions. He is not prepared for this.

She looks like his heart when she sleeps. Her sharp features, so similar to his own, soften in slumber.

Her hair is the same color as hers, the color of cooling ash. It is thick, like his own had been, and naturally curly. Her skin is a mix of his light pallor and his heart’s sunkissed gold and there is a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She is tall and shares her mother’s muscular build. Above all else, she is undoubtedly elvhen.

She is not supposed to _exist_.

When he had told his heart that he was incapable of bringing life into this world it had been true in every sense. It _should not have happened_. It must have been the crossroads itself, a place between places. Perhaps it had affected the preventative measures he’d put into place before this point.

Yet somehow she is here. He does not believe in gods, but if one did exist, it was certainly cruel.

He knows that she will never let him near her once awake. This is the only chance he will get to touch her, to reassure himself that she is alive and well. He wonders if her mother had ever done this; sat at her bedside and brushed the hair from her face when she was sick. Was she sick often, or had she been a healthy child? There are so many things he will never know. Things he does not feel he has the right to ask.

Would he have done anything differently, if he had known of her existence earlier?

He thinks about that often, as he watches the woman with Sylaise’s vallaslin spoon broth into his daughter’s mouth. Would her presence have changed his plans? Would he have stopped? No, he does not think so.

It is easy to believe that she would have been enough to keep him from making such a horrendous mistake, but he knows himself better than that. He would have anguished over it, to see her and know she was his own and yet still destroy her in the end. It would have been harder, to watch both his heart and their daughter die for his mistakes, but it would not have changed.

His life is a long litany of regrets, and she would have become another easily enough.

He is a wretched creature, he thinks, as he holds his head in his hands and listens to her even breathing. He is a monster who would sacrifice his own family for his sense of duty. Why had his heart loved him so? He is not someone who deserves it.

And yet he wants so desperately to prove himself worthy of it all. Surely he deserves it now, after everything he has done for the sake of the People. They can never truly understand how much he has sacrifice to put this world to right for them, and a part of him resents them for it.

_Look at what I have given up for you! I chose you over my heart. I allowed her and my comrades to perish so that you could live again. I have destroyed myself to save you._ He wants them to be grateful for it, to become better than what they were so that he can convince himself it was the right decision. He is forever trying to convince himself it was the right thing to do, and he never seems fully able to do so.

“…please mother…please.”

He brings his head up quickly, searching his daughter for any signs of pain or discomfort. Her brow is furrowed but she remains otherwise still. He reaches out a hand to touch her forehead. No fever.

“I promise I won’t cut them off. I promise. Please don’t leave, I won’t cut them.” The words tumble from her lips in a choked sob, and she turns her head to the side. His hand hovers above her for a few moments before he places it back in his lap.

He frowns, confused by her words. Cut them? Cut what? A tear slides down her cheek from beneath closed eyelids. “Please don’t leave. I promise, I promise.”

Leave. Her words twist his stomach into knots. He knows the only reason his heart would leave her. His curiosity is too much, and with a sinking sense of dread he brushes her hair aside and tucks it behind her ear. A small notch of discolored skin, slightly raised and heartbreaking because he knows, he knows that he is somehow the cause of it.

_“I promise I won’t cut them off.”_ She had tried to—no, it is too much. She hates him and what he stands for so much that she tried to cut her own ears? Is that what the elvhen have become to her? A symbol of abhorrence and fear?

Is that how she sees _herself_?

Her hatred for him he can weather. He deserves it, even if it hurts him. But for her to despise her heritage to that extent, the one thing in this world he has always been proud of…he reaches out and runs his finger across the scarred ridge and lets out a shaky breath.

The People are his greatest pride…and his daughter’s greatest shame.

He needs to leave and clear his head. He is letting his thoughts wander and they are taking dark paths. He makes to stand when he notices the small pouch on the bedside table. It is made of old, weathered leather, and the Inquisition’s symbol is branded onto the side.

He has ordered her clothing and armor to be disposed of, as they had been so damaged that they would not be worth repairing. So what could have been deemed important enough for someone to leave these?

The contents of the pouch land on the polished wood in a series of ‘thunks’, and he has to reach out a hand to keep a ring from rolling off of the edge. It is an ornate thing, twining snakes around a deep purple stone that he knows with a certainty belonged to Dorian.  He places it back down and pauses at the necklace lying atop a handful of coins and a deck of cards.

He knows that necklace. How many times has he seen it hanging from his love’s neck? She had carved it from the horn of her first kill. Well carved, but not anything breathtaking. A tentative first time carving with bone, she’d told him.

A simple thing, a straight length of antler covered in whirling patterns of trees and other plantlife. At the top, nestled between some branches, is a bird, wings outstretched as it prepares to take flight.

The necklace does not belong to him. It is not his to cherish. But he has nothing left of his heart now, aside from the daughter that sleeps a few feet away who will likely despise him the moment she awakens. He cannot stop himself from picking it up and taking it with him when he leaves her chambers.

* * *

 

She turns to face him like she is ready for war.

Her mouth twists, and the hatred on her face is clear and cutting. He had known what to expect, but it does not lessen the blow. Even though he had known it was useless, some small part of him had hoped she would be glad to see him. “Are you well?”

“I will live.” The scorn in her voice makes him wonder if she would have rather died.

“I know.” He nods, tries to remain calm. It is like that night at Crestwood with his heart. No matter how he tries, his feelings force their way to the surface. He cannot hide the hurt. “Is there anything you require?” There must be something he can give her to make her look at him with something other than hate.

“Did you kill him?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. It is a nice voice. Even-toned and rhythmic, deeper than his heart’s. He wonders what she sounds like when she laughs.

Ah, but she has asked him a question, and he is not entirely certain who she is talking about. “Who?”

“Cullen.” She snaps. “You were trying to kill him.”

“No.” He clasps his hands behind his back, if only to steady himself. He is so unsure of where he stands and what to say. “I did not kill him.” He can see a bit of Cullen in the way she holds herself. Hesitant but solid. If she falls she will pull herself back up. He should be thankful that his daughter has been reared so well, but he cannot help the bit of jealousy that seeps through. “He raised you?” He wonders if he will see bits of the others in her as well. How loved she must have been, even without him.

“If you kill him, I will crush you.” She vows. She is so full of anger, but there is fear as well, though she hides it well. She is trying to put up a brave front; he knows she must feel abandoned and uncertain and alone. “I will tell you nothing,” she continues, as if she is afraid she will not have the courage to say what she must if she does not do so now. “You will gain no usable information from me about troop movements, or tactics. I would suggest you rid yourself of me now and save us both the trouble. I have been trained to withstand torture, both magical and mundane, so there is little chance such tactics will work.”

It takes a few moments for her words to sink in, and as they do so, he is horrified. Is that truly how she sees him? Is that the picture the Inquisition has painted of him now? Is that how his heart had spoken of him? No, that he will not believe. “You believe…” He begins, pauses, then tries again. It is hard to speak. “You believe I mean to kill you.”

“It is what you do.”

“I will not harm you.” He vows fiercely. “I will not.” The fact that she believes he could do so hurts more than he would like to admit. That his own daughter fears him…

“I am not my mother.” She begins awkwardly. She does not seem to know how to take his promise. It has thrown her off balance. “So there is no need to feel…” she stops, snorts, mouth twisting in a sneer as she holds her head high with all the haughty grandeur of Madame de Fer. “No, not even for her, it never mattered. Love means nothing to you. Keep your empty promises, Dread Wolf.”

Ah, there it is. The words cut deeper than she knows, deeper than he lets her see. Dread Wolf…that she would call him by that name sickens him. It is a title he despises, and one she has grown up knowing him by. He closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath. “Ask for anything within reason and it will be granted to you. You may move freely throughout the keep.”

“I wish to leave.”

He allows himself a small smile at that. She sounds like an angry child, asking for something she knows will not be granted to her. “Within reason, ma’ ashalan.” The endearment comes unbidden, and he wonders if she can hear what the words mean to him. My daughter. They were words he has never thought to utter, and he enjoys the sound of them in the air, tinged as they are with bitterness.

She does not. He can see it in the way she cringes at the sound and looks away. “I will leave you for now.” He promises, because he cannot remain here, when the wound to his heart is open and raw and bleeding. He cannot allow her to see how much her words affect him. “What shall I call you?”

He knows not to call her by the name her mother has given her. The vehemence in her voice in that fevered delirium is something he cannot forget. He will not risk provoking her by using it.

“Spero.” She says finally, hesitantly, unsure if she has done the right thing by telling him this. “They call me Spero.”

Spero. _Spero_. Of course. Of course she would go by such a name. The irony of it makes him sick. “I will speak with you again, Spero.”

Pride.

Her name also means pride.

* * *

He tells himself that he is not avoiding her. And truly, he _is_ quite busy. The other evanuris have high demands, and his spies inform him that they have begun their search in the dreaming in earnest for their brethren. He must get to them first, but he still cannot decide what he shall do with them when he does.

He had placed them in their prisons but the dreaming has shifted and changed since then and so their exact locations elude him. And he has learned that the barrier within the dreaming is far more solid than it is in the waking world. If there is a way to pass through it, it yet alludes him.

And they have begun to make probing inquiries about his “guest”. The spies that they have likely placed in his holdings have told them enough to make them curious. He knows that there are rumors aplenty as to her sudden appearance and background. Everyone wishes to know her lineage, how she has come to be. Instead of fabricating a story he has simply deemed the topic unworthy of discussion. Their stories will shield the truth, and perhaps make his daughter seem far more mysterious and formidable than she is. Mysteries in Elvhenan are not to be taken lightly. Dirthamen will be the largest problem in that respect.

He thrives upon secrets and mysteries.

At least they have not asked for a formal meeting. Despite his tenuous power check among them he cannot go against them. They are truly at a standstill in that regard, forced to follow each other’s petty demands and endure each other’s presence while they scramble for scraps of forgotten power to give them an edge.

It will be good to see his daughter, after such an exhausting few days. Even if she despises him the sight of her is a reassurance. She will only come to tolerate his presence if it is nearby, after all. And he needs her to know that he is her ally in this. She will have no others here, not yet, and this world is a cruel place.

It is a mistake, this world. Just another mistake he was must now contend with.

“Solas,” Abelas appears at his side with several scrolls in hand. “I have the reports from your scouts.” Very few people call him Solas now; Abelas and a few of Mythal’s older servants. He is not certain which name he dislikes more, Pride or Dread Wolf. Both of them have been the cause of so much suffering. He wishes he could possess a name that was not so cruel. Still, pride, for all its faults, can be turned to greater purpose. He prefers it, in the end.

“I will read them later.” He nods, watching as Abelas tucks them safely away. He has sent several of his spies to other holdings, and a few more to explore the dreaming world and the barrier that now separates it. He trusts no one, but these few can at least be relied upon to some extent. They are striving for the same goal and see him as a means to an end, so they will follow dutifully for now. He knows better than to assume anything more.

They enter the rotunda and he notices his daughter immediately. Honestly he had expected her to brood in her chambers for a few more days. She seems far too cautious to leap into the unknown so quickly. She _does_ seem wary, especially of the spirits. He cannot blame her, he doubts that the Inquisition treated the topic kindly.

It is merely something he will have to rectify. He wishes his old friend Wisdom were still here. It could have provided much needed aid on both fronts.

She spots him almost as quickly as he does her, and her expression darkens as recognition dawns. That too, is to be expected, he knows, so he tries to brush it aside as she strides across the rotunda toward him.

She looks resplendent in elvhen dress, far better than the human shirt and breeches she had been in before. It fits her. She belongs here, in Elvhenan, surrounded by spirits and her fellow People. Perhaps she cannot see it yet, but he can.

Something in his chest constricts at the sight, but it is not a painful feeling this time. He finds himself smiling as she approaches him. “Have you thought of anything I can give you?”

“Give it back.” She nearly growls. Abelas stiffens behind him, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the other man’s grip tighten on his sword. The other elvhen and spirits in the rotunda are making themselves scarce. Even the curious ones keep their distance, wary of the outcome of this meeting.

“What is it that I have taken?” He asks, but he knows fully well.

“My necklace.” She confirms, “It was taken from me.” Her voice is shaking a bit as she tries to reign in her anger. She seems so quick to it, so unlike himself or his heart.

He knows the necklace is not his yet he cannot find it in himself to give it back, despite how much it means to Spero. He can see it in her eyes—eyes so much like his own!—that she treasures it above all and yet he, who has sworn to never harm her, cannot bring himself to part with it despite the pain the action is sure to inflict. “You wore no necklace.”

“It is my mother’s.” Her voice cracks, and he feels his heart crack along with it. “ _Please_.”

“I will see if anyone knows of the necklace.” He is selfish. He knows this, but he cannot stop himself. He has given up everything for his goals, to set things right. He deserves to be selfish now.

So he will keep the necklace and he will keep his daughter where she can be safe.

“Walk with me?” He asks, motioning toward an open entryway. He does not expect her to comply, not with her anger brimming so close to the surface. Still, he wishes her to. He wants to imagine, for a moment, that they are simply father and daughter and there is not so much hatred between them.

There are eighteen years of her life he will never know. Even if she is immortal it feels as if he has missed something critical that he will never experience now. He will never hear her first words. He will never hold her, or carry her atop his shoulders; she is taller than him now. She will never tell him of her dreams, or ask him to play or tell her a story. He has lost the opportunity for such things, but he will have to make do with what he has been given.

It is a surprise when she gives him the barest of nods and falls into step beside him. He hears Abelas follow with a disparaging sigh. The other man does not enjoy the role of bodyguard, and he seems even more tense now that Spero has arrived.

The suspicion in his daughter’s gaze is deep and unguarded. She does not trust him, nor does she want to be here, but she seems to have resigned herself to this walk. Spero is too serious for a child of eighteen. And a child she most certainly is, especially by the standards of the elvhen. Adulthood is achieved at fifty, when one has finally experience the world fully. Before then she should have been carefree and happy. He knows that to the mortals she is an adult now, and she has experienced far more in her eighteen years of the cruelties of the world than most.

He is the reason she has grown up to be so serious.

But he cannot allow himself to be discouraged. He has time to repair the relationship between them. It will be slow-going, but it is not impossible. He leads her down one of the outer hallways, wondering where he should go from here. What kind of things does she enjoy? He knows nearly nothing about her, so he does not know what to say.

What is there to talk about without reminding her that she is miserable and he is the cause of her misery? What do parents normally discuss with their children? This is all so new and foreign to him. “So you are a mage?” It seems the only topic he can discuss properly. Magic is something he knows well, and it is something they have in common.

“Yes.” She states, looking at him warily, as if she is unsure where he is going with his line of questioning.

He nods at her, pleased. “You showed remarkable control. Lightning is a difficult element to channel, as it is quite unpredictable.” That his daughter is on her way to becoming a skilled and powerful mage pleases him. It is something he has given her, something that is purely of his doing rather than his heart’s.

He has never been good with lightning. It is too erratic, too emotional. It is an element that requires both control and abandon, and that is entirely beyond him. When he had been younger, before he had become an evanuris, he had entertained the thought of children. He’d always imagined himself leading them into the dreaming, teaching them magic and the nature of spirits and secrets that could be found, if one knew where to look for them.

He doubts she will take kindly to any lessons he gives her now.

Still, she lacks discipline. She throws her magic like it is a physical thing, and while the effect is staggering, it will leave her drained and vulnerable. She does not know how to hold back. Her magic is currently like a dull blade, large and forceful and able to behead with enough strength behind the swing, but it is hardly efficient in a fight. It will be dangerous for her if she continues to use it that way. He will need to find a tutor, someone else who uses lightning.

What other magic does she know? Who would have taught her?

Dorian and Vivienne, certainly, before their deaths. But who else? The Inquisition circle mages? They could not be trusted to do so properly. There was the Champion’s companion, the Dalish blood-mage. She seems a dangerous choice, but an effective one.

It would explain his daughter’s lack of finesse. “You have not tried to use your magic since your arrival here.” He continues, pleased that this is a topic he can discuss with her. Yes, he will need to find her suitable tutors.

“I hate magic.” She states coldly.

Ah. Of course she does. His smile turns pained. Why would she take joy in something that reminds her of him? The silence grows between them as he tries to think of something else to say to her. Abelas shifts impatiently nearby, ready to be done with this entire display. Solas wishes he could dismiss him, but the other man will not leave even if he orders it.

“Where is my sword?”

“I did not take it when I found you.” Solas looks away. “I was preoccupied.” He had thought of nothing but the revelation that he had a daughter and she was dying in his arms. He remembers little else, even that she had a sword at all.

“And my armor?”

“It was damaged beyond repair and so was disposed of.” It had been dented and scratched and, most importantly, not elvhen. He cannot trust such amateurish work to keep his daughter safe. If she wishes for armor he will have a set made for her. He will cloak her in metal and magic of proper make so that she will come to no harm.

“I would like a sword.”

“We shall see.” He nods patiently. It is the first thing she has asked for that he can assuredly give her. She will not use it to harm anyone here, not unless she is provoked. His heart would not have raised her so. And perhaps it will make her feel more at ease to know she has a weapon to defend herself with.

And truthfully, he cannot trust everyone within these walls. The evanuris must know by now that she exists, that she is a weakness to be exploited. She is not powerful enough to go against them by herself if she were to be targeted, but it will make him feel better if she has a sword in hand.

“I wish to send a letter to my family.”

She is testing him now. To see how far he will give in to her demands. He should not make promises he cannot keep. He knows it is impossible to allow her to write the Inquisition. Even if she knows nothing that could endanger his cause, he cannot allow it. “We shall see.” He says, knowing full well that the letters will never leave this side of the barrier. “I will have to read them.”

She cannot hide the triumphant flicker in her gaze, and he feels a bit guilty for that. She thinks she has found some avenue for escape and he will have to destroy that hope early on.

* * *

 

Abelas’ foul mood continues for most of the afternoon, a shift from his usual moroseness to something akin to anger. It is an interesting turn, and it does not take long to discover its source. It is early evening when Abelas closes the door and turns to Solas and his gaze is almost accusatory. “She feels like Mythal.”

Solas looks up from the scroll he has been reading; a set of declarations from Falon’Din about what Solas owes to the war effort. He studies Abelas’ face. The other man looks as close to shaken as he can be.

When Solas had absorbed the remnants of Mythal’s soul he had known how to properly suppress it and keep it hidden. His daughter does not. To most of the others it will simply seem like her own power. But Abelas is bound to Mythal and can sense her geas even in the shattered soul that he has given to Spero.

“She cannot compel you.” Solas replies, though he is not entirely certain this is true. “She does not know she possesses it.”

That does not seem to make Abelas feel any better. “I can feel the geas. If she orders me I shall have to obey.”

“Then it is good that only the two of us knows of its existence.” Solas nods. He knows fully well that Abelas will feel compelled to look after her. He is bound to her service just as he was bound to Mythal. If his daughter is to be an evanuris she will need her own protection.

And she _will_ become one. He has never wished to lead or rule, but he sees his heart in his daughter. She is born to it. She will lead well. But she is too weak at the moment. Too new in her powers. If she will not allow Solas to provide her protection personally, he will simply find other avenues.

Like Abelas.

“Still, it will be best if you guard her.” Solas decides, placing the scroll neatly among several others. Falon’Din will get an answer, but it need not be punctual. The other evanuris acts irrationally when angered and impatient. Perhaps he will make a mistake that Solas can use to his advantage. “It will not seem odd that I have placed her in your care.”

Abelas’ dour expression deepens but he nods wearily, accepting the order like a man walking to his execution.

Solas has tried and failed far too many times to count in fixing his own mistakes. He cannot be allowed to fail again. He wishes that the elvhen could govern themselves without relying on a leader, but it seems that the nature of the People is the same as humanity—though he hates to admit such a similarity—and even if he destroys the evanuris, others will take their place.

Let that be his daughter, then. Let him finish what he started and destroy the evanuris cleanly. Still, there is much to be done. She is not strong enough, not wise enough, to take on the duty yet. She is ignorant of this world and the monsters within. But it is a start.

“Fen’Harel,” Someone is at the door, out of breath and nervous. He catches sight of Mythal’s vallaslin and little else as the elf bows their head, “Something is wrong with the lady.”

He is moving before the words have faded into silence, Abelas at his heels.

He hears the tail end of a gut-wrenching cry echo off stone as they near her chambers, and his chest tightens. What has happened? The wards around her room and the guards in place should have been enough to protect her. Who would have acted so quickly?

“Spero,” He calls, shaken by her trembling form, the shattered remains of a pitcher that surround her, and the kneeling form of the servant with Sylaise’s vallaslin.

She turns to him and the look is raw and unguarded. She is full of hate and resentment—and fear. She looks _so afraid_. Not the fear he’d seen upon their first talk, when she’d braced herself for torture and death. It is the numb terror of something inevitable. It borders on hopelessness. He does not know what has happened to make her this way, so he turns to the only other person in the room.

The woman shrinks back from him, nearly stumbling, and he wonders what his face must look like. “What has happened?”

“I—I do not know.” She stutters, still holding onto Spero’s shoulders. “She just threw the vase and screamed and—”

“I can’t.” Spero chokes out. “You—I can’t do it. Why did you change me? Why did you make me this way?”

Solas frowns. Change her? What does she mean? He does not ask, however. She does not seem entirely coherent at the moment, and he doubts she would give him a satisfying answer. He grabs his daughter from the ground and pulls her to her feet. Her knees buckle but she manages to steady herself, leaning against him, muttering a litany of pained questions as he leads her to her bed.

Abelas has grabbed the servant and pulled her toward the door. She is saying something, but Solas ignores it. He does not know if she is the cause of Spero’s current condition but he cannot bring himself to care much at the moment. Besides, he doubts that Abelas will be overly cruel.

But what change could she possibly mean?

“Let go of me, don’t _touch_ me,” She hisses, trying to push him away. She slumps down onto the edge of the mattress, recoiling from his touch even as he reaches for her again, “I said don’t TOUCH me! Haven’t you done enough?”

This is more the reaction he had expected from her to begin with. Angry and loud and brash. The kind of emotional outburst the young are known for. He had not known how to deal with her serious resoluteness and acceptance of her fate before. This is easier to deal with, in a way. So while the words are harsher, they do not cut as deep.

Oh. It comes to him slowly, as she grabs for the decanter of wine beside her bed and a goblet and fills it with trembling hands. She downs it and nearly drops the goblet before she manages to place it on the table's edge. She knows. Of course she does. But to what extent? Simply that she is now fully elvhen or that something other than herself now rests inside of her?

“Sleep,” He orders, and the magic that laces his words makes her eyelids droop. She fights him, but it is the half-hearted attempt of one who knows they cannot win, and she falls back against the pillows on her bed with only a few cursed words of protest.

He reaches out and grabs her hand. He tries to imagine how small it must have been, once. When she had been tiny and fragile and new. He will never know that part of her. Was she a happy child? Of course she must have been, raised with the love of his heart and those he’d once considered dear friends.

He knows fully well how strong his heart’s love is. She had done everything to save him. She had never given up on him, forgave him at every turn despite his mistakes and his betrayal. She had given her all to him.

How much stronger must her love have been for their child?

Strong enough to endure whatever magic had torn her apart and stopped the veil from rending completely. Strong enough to sacrifice her life.

And now she has left the task to him. He must look out for their daughter now. He will endure the anger and the hate if it means that she is safe. This is his atonement for all the wrongs he has committed. He cannot fail here.

“I am sorry.” He whispers to the air. “Just a little longer, ma vhenan.”

He cannot join her yet, not when their daughter needs him.

 

 

 


	4. Si vis pacem, para bellum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Si vis pacem, para bellum – "If you want peace, prepare for the war."

Her father had spelled her to sleep, and the magic lies close to her bones, making them heavy. It takes her several hours to open her eyes and clear her mind enough to think. The balcony doors have been left open, and the cold wind would be chilling if not for the cocoon of furs she wraps herself in at night.

For a long while her thoughts are scattered and foggy, and any attempt at getting out of bed ends in a struggle to move a single limb. Her body doesn’t work as she wills it, and she is also horrified to realize that she has drooled all over one of the cushions.

She is ashamed of how emotionally volatile she has become. She has cried and screamed more within the past week than in the six years since her mother’s death. She doesn’t understand it, and that confuses her. Why does it seem like she has no control over her emotions anymore? Is it the magic in the air, or her heightened senses?

Whatever it is she wants it to end quickly. She also wants to be able to move her arms, and that seems like it will happen much sooner. She doesn’t have to consciously think about moving each finger anymore, and the tingling numbness is subsiding. As it becomes easier to move it becomes easier to think, and think she does.

She is probably the only person in all of Thedas that would find immortality terrible and frightening.

Why does the thought of immortality anger her? Because it was forced upon her without her consent? Because now she must watch as those she loves wither and grow old and die? Or because there is now no way of escaping the promise she made to her mother? Perhaps she could have done it, if she were mortal. Somehow found a way in her last few hours to set things right with Solas for her mother’s sake, even if it was a lie.

Now he has time on his side. Time to convince her, and twist her, and morph her into his own image and she must stay because she has promised her mother she would. And she is terrified. She is so very much like him, how easy it will be for him to sway her.

What damage and pain will _her_ pride wrought?

No, no she cannot let it happen. She cannot. Her people are the mortals of Thedas, and she must protect them in any way she can. But what if time twists her? Makes her become jaded and frustrated? What if she wakes one day and thinks that in order to save this world she must rebuild it in the image she finds most appealing?

What if she becomes him?

Her morning is filled with uneasy thoughts and an emotional scale that seems ever on the edge of tipping. It comes in small waves. She finds herself looking out the window at the courtyard below and it hits her that even when this valley has changed, when the walls crumble and the trees wither, there is a chance she will remain. She fights the numbing terror by distracting herself with thoughts of vengeance.

She creates battle plans and scenarios, plots a daring escape and a return to her people. The plans never get far, running up against walls she cannot scale. But putting her mind to the test allows her to center herself. She must come to terms with her newfound immortality, but she will not think of it now. It is something she will deal with at a later date, when she can no longer deny its existence. For now…for now she will set the panic and the grief and the anger on that subject aside as best she can.

 _“You must compartmentalize it all, my dear. There is no use in getting angry about things you cannot change.”_ Vivienne’s words flicker in the back of her mind, barely a whisper. It has been so long since she has heard her voice, she is beginning to forget it. _“Focus on the task at hand. Never let them see you afraid. It gives them power. You must always appear to be in control of the situation. If you do, chances are it will become so.”_

She spends most of the next week trying to memorize the layout of Eth’Durgen and avoiding her father. Either he is busy or he understands that she does not wish to meet him because he keeps his distance. The anger in her subsides when he is not near.

She is most pleased, however, that the Fade has remained normal. Her troubling nightmare from before does not repeat and so she does not think to dwell on it further. It is likely just some culmination of her anger and the newness of the Fade on this side of the barrier that caused it in the first place.

Eloen is wary of her for several days after the incident. She tries to apologize for breaking the vase and she wonders if Eloen was punished for it. If so, she must do something to make up for it and inform whoever is in charge that Eloen has done nothing wrong. Surely her father would not have punished her simply for a broken vase and a cut on Spero’s cheek. The cut in question had been healed, most likely while she slept. She’d glad for it. Her own healing magic is nonexistent, so she would have left it alone to heal naturally.

“Were you punished because of me?” She finally asks after the third day of strained silence.

Eloen blinks, before she shakes her head slowly. “No.” She sounds as if she is unsure why. Did Sylaise punish her staff harshly? “But you do not like me.”

Spero looks down at her lap. It isn’t that she _dislikes_ her. Eloen is the closest thing to an ally she has here. She knows, however, that she herself is not an outwardly friendly person. All of the people that are close to her are older than her, with the exception of Fenris and Hawke’s son. She is not good at being kind or friendly. Interacting with strangers has always been hard for her.

And she knows that these people are her enemy. They want to destroy the only family she has left and enslave the rest of Thedas.

Her mother would be kind to them and try to reason with them, compromise in some way. But if they are to be enemies she does not want to befriend them. If she comes to like them, it will be harder to fight them later.

“I…” She swallows and grips the edge of the bedspread. “I would like to see the gardens you mentioned before.”

Her father would try not to get attached. He would keep himself distant so that he could dispose of people when needed.

She is not her father.

Eloen smiles tentatively. “Of course.”

* * *

The gardens _are_ exceptionally beautiful, and Eloen smiles a slow, pleased smile when she comments on the fact. “I aided in creating the layout,” Eloen admits. She leads her through an archway of white trees, their foliage a shimmering range of the sky at sunset, red and orange and purple, that Spero has never seen before.

They pass by several other elvhen who seem to be enjoying the gardens as well, or perhaps using them as some shortcut to where they need to go as they cart handfuls of scrolls and objects that Spero does not recognize. None of them speak to her, but they all nod their head in greeting. Eloen seems to take some kind of personal pride in it, as if they are bowing to her instead. It simply makes Spero uncomfortable.

Out of the corners of her eyes she can see flickers of light and magic, and sometimes she catches the tail-end glance of a spirit. They still keep their distance from her, but a few of the bolder ones drift close enough that the air shifts with their presence, and she can glean impressions of what they are even without seeing them.

It makes her skin itch, so she tries not to dwell on it, or look further into the churning clouds in the air that could likely shed light on exactly what kind of spirits they are. It is disconcerting. Like she has woken up and can speak a new language fluently that she has never heard before. This must be another side effect of the immortality that has been bestowed upon her.

“If you are so skilled at landscaping, why did you agree to serving me?” Spero asks, genuinely perplexed. Eloen seems to have an innate talent for design, and there is something terribly satisfying about the perfect symmetry of it all.  

“It is an honor to personally serve an evanuris in their household.” Eloen replies, as if that is all that needs to be said.

They have come across a small courtyard hidden behind a line of exotic fruit trees. A fountain stands in the middle, a depiction of an elvhen woman pouring out a vessel of some sort into the open mouth of a giant beast, whose head breaks the surface of the water to reveal a gaping maw full of razor teeth. It is not a particularly pretty scene, despite how artfully crafted it is. It leaves her feeling rather unsettled.

“What is that?” She finds herself asking, because she cannot look away.

“It is one of Aelynthi’s most famous works. It was originally a gift for Mythal and was the centerpiece in her great hall.” Eloen sighs as she looks at the piece. “It is a shame that Aelynthi passed before he could finish the accompanying piece.”

“Passed?”

“Elgar’nan did not appreciate the choice of model.” Eloen answers softly, her smile fading slightly as her gaze flickers to the face of the female elvhen.

It is a story she wishes to hear, but she decides that she is more curious about what exactly the statue represents. She has never seen the monstrous creature before, though she supposes it could be one of Ghilan’nain’s creations. “What is the creature?”

“Oh.” Eloen’s smile returns, and she points toward the sculpture. “It is a symbolic piece. The woman stands as the symbol of Elvhenan. She pours knowledge and compassion and all the wonders of Elvhenan into the mouth of the Isathe’len, represented by the creature there. See how it continues to devour what is given without any thought to the water that surrounds it?”

“Isathe’len?” It is not a word she knows. She tries to translate it but comes up empty.

“The Hungry Ones.” Eloen supplies, and suppresses a shudder at the words. “Come, I wish to show you the fish ponds. Ghilan’nain provided several new creations as a welcoming gift to Fen’Harel in return for his joining the alliance. They are quite remarkable.”

Eloen takes her past the fountain, but even as they travel beneath another canopy of trees and she is startled by the colorful birds that flitter between the branches, she can still hear the gurgling of the water as it pours, unending, into the monster’s mouth.

* * *

They are halfway through the garden and Eloen is explaining the magical properties of a particularly nasty looking bush with inch long glass thorns when Abelas appears. Spero tries not to let her irritation show. Abelas appearing means that her father wishes to see her, and she would prefer to pretend he did not exist at the moment.

Abelas does not like her, but he does not seem to like anyone or anything. She wonders if there is anything he enjoys. It makes no difference to her if he is miserable for the rest of his long, immortal life, but it is irritating to have to constantly witness it.

“Your father wishes to gift you with a new blade.” Abelas intones. “I will take you to the smith.” He says it as if he has been given the writ to his own execution, not the simple task of taking her to a smithy.

Spero glances at Eloen, “Thank you for showing me the gardens.”

Eloen nods. “I will see you later tonight.” She spares one last look at Abelas before turning and leaving the two alone. Spero looks over at Abelas to find that the solemn elvhen has turned and begun to walk. She hurries to follow and studies him in the silence that follows. Abelas is a similar height to her, the first elf she has seen as such. Solas also is taller than the average mortal elf, and built on stronger and broader planes, but shorter than them both. She had always wondered as to her height, as her mother is average in terms of the Dalish. Ancient elves do seem taller, but it also seems to be a bit of choice of aesthetics, as Eloen is shorter than her by at least a foot, and she has seen a varying amount of sizes and shapes in the elvhen she has passed in the halls, some of which she does not believe were possible without some kind of magical fiddling.

They pass through the garden and toward a section of the keep she has not visited. It lies outside the initial walls, on a path that takes them across three decorated courtyards and a bridge that looks to be carved of ivory above a tributary of the river that flows from the base of the waterfall above them. The roar should be louder here, but it seems some kind of muffling spell has been placed around the area, as she can hear several of the elvhen around them speaking clearly, even if she does not understand the words.

Abelas leads her down a narrow street lined with ivy-covered trellises to a large domed building.

The smithy is very different than what she is used to. There are no bellows or forge, or the sound of a hammer striking an untempered blade. There _is_ an odd wall of flames near the back of the room, and the entire place reeks of magic. It settles in the back of her throat like an overly sweet wine.

The other three walls are lined with weapons racks and display cases, all filled with some of the gaudiest pieces of metalwork she has ever witnessed.

A figure sits in a far corner fiddling with a dagger, an odd tool in one hand. It looks like some kind of carving chisel, but far more ornate than she has ever seen, and a molten ball of light hovers at its tip. The tool runs along the base of the blade near the hilt, and starlight seems to glance off the metal.

He is shorter than both of them, broad-shouldered and muscled more than she’d expected, closer in build to Blackwall or Cullen. His skin is darker than her own, a dark red ochre. His black hair is shaved at the bottom and tied into a knot near the top, and when he glances up at their approach she sees that his eyes are the color of aged brandy.

He wears the vallaslin of June in silver, and it reminds her of Fenris and his lyrium. She wonders what the ancient elves would do if they learned how to replicate it. How would it affect someone who had magic in them, she wonders? It would be very painful. Perhaps they would find some spell to block the magic from pulling at the lyrium subconsciously. Or perhaps they would enslave those without magic and use them as the Tevinter magister had used Fenris.

She hopes they never learned about what Fenris can do with lyrium. She is reminded, once again, that she cannot forget that these people are not her own. They are the enemy. Her own people are counting on her.

“So you’re Fen’Harel’s daughter.” He smiles easily, and it is oddly charming. “You’re very serious looking for a baby.”

She huffs. She understands the words, but it is far harder to come up with her own, so she turns to Abelas, who seems to have resigned himself to being her translator. “I was told you would make me a blade.” She looks around the place. “Do you have the ability to make them yourself, or do you simply draw pretty designs on them?”

He laughs, a pleasant sound, and she wonders if Abelas translated word for word. “The pretty designs hold focus spells, you know. So what kind of blade are you looking for?”

“A broadsword.” She answers. “Something close to my height. As long as it is well-balanced and well-made it doesn’t need to be fancy.”

He nods. “You’re someone who prefers to fight without magic. I suppose living on the other side of the barrier makes that a must.” If he is fishing for information from her, it is an obvious action. But he does not seem to entirely care how she answers. Perhaps it was only a statement and nothing more and she is reading too far into the actions of these people.

“No one has told me your name.” The elf continues, pulling out a garish peacock feather quill and beginning to scribble some notes on a length of parchment. “Those who know it seem to guard it quite jealously.” He glances up at Abelas before he goes back to writing. “I doubt you would enjoy being called “little wolf”.”

The face she makes has him laughing again. She wonders if her father has kept her name a secret on purpose or simply because he has not thought it important to divulge the information to others. “You may call me Spero.” She says finally as she begins to peruse the weapons along the wall. She had planned on leaving as soon as she had given the smith her order, but swords are her passion and she has never been able to resist them, even if these ones are as ornate as an Orlesian salon.

She wonders how they are forged. Are there spells that shape the heated metal on their own rather than a hammer? If so, does the quality of the blade rely on the quality of the spellwork? She is quite curious, but she will not ask. She does not like showing her ignorance.

“The name isn’t in a tongue I know.” He muses aloud.

“It is Arcanum.” She supplies, without Abelas’ help in translating this time. It is a simple sentence. The word Arcanum sounds disjointed in the middle of the fluid elvhen tongue.

“Does it have a specific meaning?”

“Yes.”

He blinks, and his smile stretches again, curling the edges of his lips. “Will you tell it to me?”

She pauses for a moment to structure what she wants to say. “When the blade is finished.” She concedes. “If I like it.”

He nods, looking amused, but does not say more as he goes back to whatever he was doing with the dagger.

She spends the afternoon there without realizing that so much time has passed. She looks over the blades and comments on them in stilted elvhen and the smith replies pleasantly. He consciously makes his sentences simpler, and sometimes offers up a new word for her.

Abelas remains in the doorway, silent and dour. Eventually the white-haired elf speaks, while she is admiring a long dagger with a hilt covered in runes she thinks Sandal would know. “Your father wishes you to dine with him. It is late.”

She places the dagger down with regret. She would have liked to study the runes a bit longer to try and memorize some of them to show the gifted dwarf when she manages to return home. She will, she vows silently, but there are more important things to think about at the moment. She has not seen her father in days and she does not wish to see him now.

At least it has become easier to stomach the food here.

“I will send a message to your father when I have finished the blade.” The dark-skinned elf calls out as she nods her head to take her leave.

* * *

Dinner is as awkward as she imagined it would be. It is her first time eating somewhere other than her room. It is a small chamber that she assumes is attached to her father’s own rooms; a table that could comfortably seat six, made of a dark wood lacquered and inlaid with what she believes is mother-of-pearl, and matching high-backed chairs.

They are comfortable, despite their appearance, she finds. She is surprised that Abelas is not standing in the corner glowering as he waits to jump to her father’s defense should she decide to stab him with a salad fork, but they are the only two in the room. Solas had waved off the servants after they had brought in the food, and the silence stretches.

“I heard you went to the gardens today.”

“Yes.” She pokes at an unfamiliar dish. Some of the vegetables it contains she knows, but the seasoning is foreign and overpowering. Her nose begins to itch.

“Did you enjoy them?”

She wants to ask about the elvhen artist Aelynthi and the Isathe’len, but she decides against it. She will try and uncover the tale herself, first. “Yes.”

Her one-word answers cut their exchange short, and her father’s failing attempts at small talk flounder and die quickly. He does not mention her emotional breakdown and she does not mention him spelling her to sleep, for which she is grateful. But she can’t stomach the silence any better than she can stomach this odd dish. She reaches for what looks like a harmless roll of bread and speaks. “None of the spirits here have approached me.” Spero glances down at her food to avoid looking at her father.

“I have informed them not to.” Solas explains, looking pleased that she has initiated conversation this time. “I did not wish to unsettle you. I know how the chantry speaks of spirits.”

Spero nearly rolls her eyes. The arrogant tone of his voice is the same as the Templars. The old ones, the ones who still believed that magic was evil and mages deserved tranquility. There weren’t many of them left, but their voices were always raised the loudest in protest wherever they went. As if they knew better than everyone else simply because of their age.

 _“Old ways should die with old men.”_ Josephine had muttered once, after a long discussion between the new Archon and Knight Commander.

“How do you keep the spirits from turning to demons?”

Solas pauses halfway into reaching for his goblet. He seems unsure how to proceed with the question. On the one hand he looks eager to teach her what he knows, but he also appears hesitant to tell her anything she might use to escape. His desire to share his knowledge wins out. “Spirits corrupt into demons when they are denied their purpose, or are influenced by a particularly memorable event.”

She catches the small twitch of his lips that morphs his frown into a snarl for a brief moment before disappearing. She doesn’t ask about it, however. “Is this why they are not allowed on the battlefield?” She imagines experiencing uncontrolled slaughter and hatred counts as a memorable event.

“There are some spirits who would be fine under such circumstances.” Solas nods. “Spirits of fortitude or courage, for instance.”

“Or cruelty and ambition?” Spero interjects before she can stop herself.

Solas’ frown deepens at her tone. He decides not to mention it as he nods slowly. “The more volatile spirits are kept in the Dreaming.”

“I didn’t think it was possible to keep them there against their will without the veil.”

He is enjoying this, she realizes. Teaching her. He wears the mantle of teacher easily. She does not want to see him happy, but she needs to learn these things, and tapering off into sullen silence simply to deny him this small pleasure would be petty and would not further her own goals. That is what she tells herself as he leans forward with a small smile and continues. “It is not the same as imprisoning them in the fade.”

She supposes he understands the mechanics behind fade imprisonment better than anyone.

“There are areas within the Dreaming that are more conducive to their natures and so they are…encouraged to remain there. Though some of the evanuris have been known to accept them into their service.”

Falon’Din and Dirthamen seem the most likely to welcome such spirits. Andruil too, from what she has gleaned from seeing her on the battlefield. “So they do not try and possess others?”

“There is no need to, when they may come and go as they please.” Solas nods in satisfaction. “If you are not opposed, I will tell them they may approach you.”

Spero nods absently, taking a bite of the roll. It is filled with some kind of meat. Gamey. Venison? It is easier to stomach than the first dish. She takes another bite. “Do spirits serve the evanuris like the other elvhen, or are they simply allowed where they wish?”

“It is a bit more complicated than that.” Solas concedes. “Most spirits come and go between holdings and the Dreaming as they will. They go where they feel they are most likely to fulfill their nature. So oftentimes specific spirits are more likely to be found in the holdings of certain evanuris. Spirits of innovation and curiosity, for example, often frequented June’s lands.”

It makes sense. They are less likely to become corrupt and turn into demons if they live in areas where their nature and purpose is clear.

“That being said,” Solas continues, “Some spirits have sworn themselves to the service of certain evanuris. It is a difficult thing, to balance that fealty with what they are. Oftentimes it is easier to give them bodies. This changes their behaviors enough that they are no longer bound to one purpose.”

Like Cole, she imagines. He had once been a spirit of compassion, and she knows he still acted very…spirit-like, but he was able to also act outside of his nature at times; there is nothing compassionate about killing red Templars, unless one stretches the intent of the death rather thinly.

“Where do they get the bodies?” Cole had taken the body of a murdered boy. A corpse. She doubts that there is an abundance of elvhen corpses for the spirits to choose from, and it seems to be a rather difficult process anyway. Otherwise more spirits who wished to leave the Fade would have simply resorted to body-snatching.

“Bodies can be made.” Her father takes a sip of his wine. “If the spirit wishes for one.”

“What did you do with the demons that fell from the Fade when you tore down the veil?” She’d always wondered about that. Had they all simply ceased to be like Cole? He had still been more spirit than man at that point, and the weakening of the veil had ripped what was left of him out of his body and away. She does not know where. She likes to believe that he returned to the Fade…but if so, would he be a spirit of compassion any longer? Or would the process have corrupted him into something else?

“There were not many left.” Solas replies. He looks tired, and she can see a wave of grief wash over him. It irritates her, the sight of it. He does not have a right to grieve, not when all of it happened by his hand. He does not get to feel sorry for what he has done, not when he would do it again in a heartbeat. And he would, she knows. Even now she wonders if he is planning to find a way to shatter the barrier and pull down the veil in full.

He does not have the strength or means to do so now, but that does not mean it won’t happen in the future. She won’t let him. Her mother didn’t sacrifice herself just so her father could undo it all later to heal his wounded pride.

The wine in her mouth turns sour. “I am finished eating.” She makes to stand. She is angry again, and she doesn’t want to be. She wants to be in control, like Vivienne always told her to be.

Solas stands as well, and his own smile has faded as he notices the change in her demeanor. He looks like he wants to reach out and touch her but he stops himself. “Of course. Before you leave, there is something I would discuss with you.”

Discuss? She rests a hand on the high back of her chair and nods.

“I am placing you in the care of Abelas for the time being.”

That was not what she had been expecting, but it is also not a surprise. It is _also_ not something she appreciates, and her grip tightens on the varnished wood.

Solas seems to see her irritation and continues his explanation as if he thinks that further elaboration will make her agree to it more readily. “Even within my holdings it is not entirely safe. I would feel better knowing that Abelas was there to watch over you.”

So she is to have a keeper. She is a prisoner, she remembers. No amount of strolling through the gardens or gifts of silk and steel will change that. She is a bird in a gilded cage, with clipped wings and a dependency on the hand that feeds her.

“Eloen is enough.”

“She has her own duties that do not pertain to you.” Solas replies smoothly. “And she is not trained for combat. Abelas has agreed to train you in swordplay and offensive magic.”

Training? That is unexpected. She had not thought she would be allowed to train even by herself. First he gifts her with a sword and now he is allowing her to be taught elvhen tactics and magic? Does he truly believe she is one of them, now? Does he not understand that her loyalties will never lie with Elvhenan?

“I see.” She manages. This is to her advantage. Abelas may be a depressing sort, but he is powerful and skilled. She will learn what she can for him and look for any weaknesses she can exploit. Yes, that is all she can do in this situation. “I am going to bed now.”

“Sleep well.” Solas murmurs, and she barely hears his next words, as she walks out of the room and he whispers them into the distance between them.

“Ma’ ashalan.”

* * *

“What are they for?” Eloen asks softly, gaze flickering from her embroidery to the deck of cards that Spero holds in her hands.

They are sitting in her room, with Eloen at the table near the fireplace. She is embroidering a length of ribbon with thread that constantly changes color. The ribbon is a beautiful blue-green and a material that Spero does not recognize. The designs Eloen stitches must have some kind of magical meaning, because they glow briefly when she finishes each line.

Spero looks back down at the deck of cards she has been idly shuffling. It is one of the only things of hers she has left. She had found the small bag of her belongings on the nightstand after she had awoken from her spelled slumber, and Eloen had told her that was all that they had managed to save. No necklace, she had been told.

Still, the cards are a comfort. “They are cards for playing games. Like Wicked Grace or Dead Man’s Tricks.” There was also Diamondback, but she doesn’t have the proper deck for that. Varric had taught it to her, but Wicked Grace has always been her favorite.

Eloen leans forward curiously, glancing at the cards. “Is it a difficult game to learn?”

Spero cannot help the smile on her face as she parrots Isabela’s words to her when she’d asked the famed pirate the same question as a child. “It’s easy to learn but difficult to master.” She begins to shuffle the cards again. “Would you like to play?”

Eloen considers for a few moments before she puts down her needlework. “Very well.” She glances at the empty chair to her right. “Would it be easier to play at a table?”

Spero takes the seat and begins to place the cards face up on the table. “Before we play, you need to learn what each of the cards are. There are four suits: songs, serpents, angels, and knights. Now you see how each of these cards also has a number? These are important when playing Wicked Grace because…”

* * *

She breathes a sigh of relief as she opens her eyes to find herself in the Fade. It is slightly different than the Fade on the other side of the barrier, but it is the Fade nonetheless. It is brighter, more solid and real. They call it the Dreaming here, but she can’t keep herself from calling it the name she knows.

She has often wished she were a somniari. She thinks the ability would be useful here, in finding some way of getting word to her family. But her skills with dreaming and the manipulation of it are limited. Dorian had always said she lacked imagination. Vivenne had been harsher still and told her quite honestly that she was dull and as brutish in her artistry of the fade as she was in about any other endeavor. Merrill had been the kindest of the three and had told her that her willpower in the fade could be an asset, if she learned how to properly handle it.

Usually she is content to let her dreams take her where they will, like she does this night. She is lying on a grassy hill somewhere in the Dales. Her mother had taken her once, to meet the Dalish clans that were still in the area, to try and instill in her some kind of pride for her heritage. There are several aravels nearby, and a halla grazes a few feet away. It is a familiar scene.

Only the grass is the color of quicksilver and the halla is more mist than beast, and the chatter of the nearby Dalish comes off as the pealing of bells rather than voices. Despite the grass’ odd coloring and slight luminescence, it feels cool and real and smells wonderful as she uproots a handful of it and brings it closer for inspection.

She half expects to turn and see her mother sitting beside her, a smile on her lips as she tells her stories of her people. “They are your people too,” she will remind her, reaching out to tug on her pigtails. “So remember the stories.”

But she is alone here, with shadows and memories and the smell of crushed grass.

The stars are bright. She wonders if it is an accurate representation of the sky or if her subconscious has simply created constellations that look like they might fit. She picks out a few that she vaguely recalls to be real.

Blackwall had loved to show her the stars.

She remembers leaning back in his arms, his beard tickling the back of her neck and feeling his voice travel up through his chest and into the air above her as he described the shapes to her. “That’s Equinor, the stallion. Some people think it’s really a griffin.” And he would hold out his arm, so she could see the Warden’s symbol on his armguard and she’d trace the griffin’s wings with a sigh. “I wish I’d been named for a griffin instead of a little bird.”

“A griffin might seem big and powerful, but there aren’t any griffins anymore. Yet, there are still plenty of little birds.”

She reaches up and traces the stars with her fingertips. Her chest feels tight, and she lets out a slow breath.

No more griffins. Only a little bird, fluttering through the air, lost and afraid.

She awakens to wet cheeks and a heavy heart.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isathe'len: the direct translation is children of hunger. 
> 
> I had planned on getting this chapter out sooner, but then I went on a small vacation with a friend who was visiting me from overseas, so I was a bit distracted. :) But the plot begins to take shape, and so do the characters now that we're out of the awkward angry stage. Not that Spero will be warming up to her father anytime soon, but at least she has the chance to be a bit nicer to the rest of the elvhen she encounters.


	5. Ubi fumus, ibi ignis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubi fumus, ibi ignis - Where there's smoke, there's fire

She wakes up to a spirit hovering over her bed. It takes her only a moment to act, bolting upright with one hand on her penknife. The spirit has fluttered back a few feet at the movement but it remains nearby, all rippling magic and faint light. It looks to be the gray spirit she’d seen in the rotunda the day she’d confronted her father about her necklace.

“What are you doing?” She demands, and only realizes that she is speaking in the trade tongue afterwards. Her language lessons with Eloen are going well, but instinct and uncertainty lead her back to the tongue she is familiar with. The spirit seems to understand the question anyway.

“You never dream about happy things.” The spirit responds, and if it could frown she thinks that it would be doing so now. As it stands, the light within it ripples and dulls in its own version of a sigh.

Spero’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t appreciate being watched, especially in her own dreams. Had her father asked the spirit to look after her, then? She _had_ told him on their last meeting that she did not mind the spirits, which had been a half-truth.

Spirits inhabiting bodies like Cole she can deal with easily. These physical spirits are still disconcerting to look at. It makes her feel like she’s in the Fade even though she’s awake, and it throws off her equilibrium. Still, she lessens her tight grip on her penknife and settles back against her cushions. “There are not many things that make me happy.”

The spirit seems to wilt a bit at that. “That is very sad.” It slides a little closer, tendrils brushing against the furs at the foot of the bed. “There are many happy things in the world. You just need to look for them. Or I could bring a spirit of happiness here to you and it could show you.”

“I imagine they are very hard to come by these days.” Spero mutters. She doesn’t need a spirit pitying her too. Or is it a spirit _of_ pity? If so, this will be a very annoying conversation. “What kind of a spirit are you?”

“I am Concern.” The spirit replies as Spero slips out of bed and heads for the closet. “I am making you uncomfortable. It is alright, I am not here to pity you. I am merely worried that you are never happy. There is plenty to be happy about. You do not have to be miserable just because you are living with your father.”

Cole had done it often, reaching into her head and pulling out stray thoughts. He had always spoken of them in fragments, the tail-end of deeper worries. Concern seems able to articulate it much more clearly. That isn’t necessarily a good thing, she thinks.

“I imagine that there are many things to be concerned about here.” She settles on as she stands. Best to get dressed for the day. The spirit will leave on its own eventually, when it realizes that she is finished speaking.

“There are.” Concern agrees and flutters closer to the balcony. Spero undoes her braid and reaches for her comb, running it absently through her hair as she tries to decide what to do with this odd spirit. She’s never met a spirit of concern before, but she imagines that there must be many of them. Everyone is worried about something, and there are many things lately that exacerbate that worry. Then again, she has not met _any_ spirits aside from Cole, and the occasional ones in the Fade. She was much more likely to meet demons, so she has never had the opportunity to ponder what kind of spirits would be more plentiful than others.

Luckily she does not have to think for much longer, as Eloen walks into the room with an armful of clothing and a slight frown on her face. She pauses when she sees Concern hovering nearby as Spero braids her hair tightly down her back. “Fen’Harel says that these clothes will make you feel more comfortable.” Her expression says she is doubtful of that. “Abelas is waiting outside to take you to the training grounds.”

The clothing isn’t _exactly_ what she’s used to, but some kind of foreign conglomeration, as if her father had tried to describe Fereldan fashion to an elvish tailor and this was the result. That is rather likely, in hindsight. There is a pair of breeches that are similar to her old sparring leathers, though they are made of an odd material she cannot name. There is a shirt with billowing, embroidered sleeves and a leather vest whose laces look to be made of spun gold.

The idea of training almost makes her smile. It will feel good, to be able to _do_ something. Even if doing that something involves spending a lengthy amount of time with Abelas.

“You should not come into rooms uninvited,” Eloen reprimands Concern, who seems to wilt a bit.

“I was _worried_.” Concern nearly whines.

A thought comes unbidden to her, of Cole digging into someone’s thoughts and announcing them to all who are present. It had happened on many an occasion, usually to the embarrassment or irritation of the person being spoken of. She glances over at Concern.

“Do not worry,” Concern responds, which _is_ concerning, because it means that the spirit can easily see what she is thinking. “I will not say anything that would cause you to worry _more_.”

Eloen looks between the two before rounding on the spirit once again. “It is very rude to do that, you know. She does not know how to properly guard her thoughts from you.”

“I know. I am sorry.” Concern shrinks a little, its long tendrils drooping.

Spero shrugs, though she wonders how one learns to guard their thoughts. It is something she will have to know in this world full of spirits. She will ask Eloen later, then, on how it is done. At the moment she is more preoccupied with the idea of holding a sword again.

“I will pin your hair back, so it does not get in the way.” Eloen looks her over, and though her face tells Spero all she needs to know about how Eloen feels about her clothing choices she does not comment upon it. She twists Spero’s braid up, coiling it into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She gives a satisfied smile before she nudges Spero forward, “I will see you later tonight for lessons.”

“Alright.” Spero agrees as she heads for the door. She pauses and turns at the last moment to meet Eloen’s gaze. “Thank you.”

She’s rewarded with a warm smile before the door closes behind her.

* * *

Her backside hits the packed earth and she grunts as pain lances up her spine.

This is certainly not how she imagined this training bout going. It is not that she assumed she was more powerful or skilled than Abelas, but she had imagined a much more evenly matched duel. Instead her clothing is covered in dirt and she has a sinking feeling her ass is going to be one giant bruise by the end of the day. She would like to blame it on not having trained for the past few weeks, or using a different weapon then she’s used to, or even that her new immortal body moves differently than her old one. But these are just excuses, and it has been drilled into her by at least five different combat trainers that excuses are useless. She can only blame herself and focus instead on improving.

Abelas’ expression never changes. Not when he lunges, not when he feints, not when he effortlessly blocks one of her attacks, not even when he plants her firmly on her butt again and again. She had figured _that_ at least would illicit some kind of reaction from him. She knows he does not like her, just as she does not like him, but if he gets any enjoyment out of her misery and humiliation it does not show.

They gain quite an audience over the course of the morning. Several spirits drift in and out of the training grounds though they rarely stay long. Concern hovers quite blatantly in her periphery, next to a half-filled weapon’s rack. More than one elf comes forward and offers suggestions, or comments on her form. The comments are usually positive, and some even seem sincere—though how they can compliment her when she is shoved in the dirt more often than not she does not know. She can tell which of them praise her because they think it will gain her favor somehow; there are fewer of them than she’d imagined. Then again, these people follow her father, and he is supposedly less like the other evanuris in that respect.

She does not share their sentiments on the matter, but that is not something she wishes to focus on at the moment.

Their suggestions seem surprisingly thoughtful. She had expected condescension, an air of superiority. She knows their feelings on the matter of others, of non-elves, and so she has assumed that this would pertain to her, or at least her mortal combat techniques. It seems that she has been fully accepted as one of their own, and will be treated as such. She does not like it. She would have preferred their disdain. It makes it more difficult to dislike them when they are kind and helpful.

At first, when they make tentative suggestions, it seems that they all fear her reaction to them. As the daughter of Fen’Harel do they expect her to take offense to their comments? To feel looked down upon? If their helpfulness had not been so sincere she supposes that would be true. But even so it is unlikely that she would have lashed out or commented on it. She is proud in all manner of ways—many of which she dislikes—but narcissism over her combat prowess is not one of them. Blackwall, Iron Bull, Cullen, Cassandra, and even Aveline had made certain of that. She has never turned down a suggestion or correction, even if she believed herself skilled.

But the elves do not know this, not in the beginning. She sees them relax as the morning bleeds into afternoon and she continues to get back up and take their advice with the same neutral expression she’s worn since arriving. By the time they finish, some of them have even worked up the confidence to call out a laughing joke or two, and it almost feels familiar. Like she’s back at Skyhold, or Fortitude.

She thinks that perhaps she should smile, or reciprocate the kindness they are so obviously trying to afford her. But the memories are all bitter now, and the nostalgia that comes with their banter settles heavy inside her. And she has never been a cheerful person, not for as long as she can remember. She’s always hated that about herself, knowing it came from him. No matter who it was or what they had said, her mother dealt with it all with a smile and optimism. Spero knows of her father’s scathing nickname of Chuckles coined by Varric, and knows that if she had been in Solas’ place, the moniker would likely have fit her as well.

“It’s remarkable what you’ve accomplished in so little time.” One of the elves comments as she grabs a cup from beside the training ground fountain around lunch. Their face is covered in Elgar’nan’s vallaslin in a deep, forest green.

“Oh yes, for being so young, your foundation is very solid.” Another nods, their own face covered in the elegant scrawl of Mythal in white.

“Thank you,” She manages in her awkward, accented elvhen, because Josephine would scold her if she did not do so. Manners always take precedence, even if you don’t like the person paying you a compliment. And she doesn’t dislike them, she knows. She should, or perhaps she shouldn’t, depending on which perspective she’s coming from, but in the end she can’t regardless. She can dislike what they stand for, and the society that created them, and the fact that her father thought they were worthy of life while her own people were not, but she cannot force that dislike on each individual. She tries to, and she _wants_ to, because it would be so much easier to just hate them all, or to treat them with indifference. It is what her father would do. It is what her father _does_.

She will not be him, despite how easy it is to do so.

And nothing is going to change the fact that these elves are alive when so many people she knows are dead. She must come to terms with that. She can’t allow herself to view these people the way her father views the mortals of Thedas. As other. As different and not worth acknowledging. Especially not now that she knows she is likely to live for thousands of years more and there is a higher chance of her becoming just another facet of the Dread Wolf.

She does not want to think of her impending immortality. It is still something she pushes aside whenever the thought appears.

Spero wonders if these elves know how many of their people she has killed on the battlefield. If the people joking with her have lost loved ones at her hands. They would not be so open with their regard if that were the case, she knows.

“After your meal we will begin training with magic.” Abelas intones from across the training grounds. “I will train you in defensive magic. Another tutor who specializes in the manipulation of elemental forces will be arriving in a few days time. They will take up your training in that regard.”

Spero nods. She still doesn’t like magic and doubts she ever will enjoy it fully, not when its mere existence in her life is tied so fully into her relationship with her father, but it is something she must learn to use.

But first…first she must eat, or she is likely to fall over any minute now.

* * *

“It’s becoming quite attached to you.”

Spero sighs at that, a sound of irritation that has Eloen cracking a smile. The subject of Eloen’s observation, of course, is the spirit of Concern that has not left her side since she awoke to it floating above her head.

She supposes that there is a lot to be concerned about in regards to her. It comes as no surprise that the small spirit finds itself so drawn to her. Out of a need to be concerned for something or out of Spero’s concern for her own people she cannot guess.

“When you were injured and the healers did not know how to help you, Concern stayed near your chambers until Fen’Harel made it leave.” Eloen continues to explain as they turn another corner and under the bows of a willow.

They spend much of their time in the gardens, now. Eloen enjoys them, and Spero enjoys being outside. She _doesn’t_ enjoy the fountain telling the story of the elvhen and Isathe’len, and tries to avoid it as much as possible. Eloen doesn’t seem to mind, as she likes showing off the lesser known parts of the garden.

Spero has begun to resign herself to the fact that the spirit might be a permanent fixture during her time here. Still, that does not mean she will openly welcome it. The less time she allows it close enough to dig into her head and pluck out her thoughts the better.

Eloen has promised to add training in guarding her mind to their nightly lessons. Though the lessons have turned more into card games, and Eloen asking questions about life in the mortal world. It’s hard to answer them sometimes, but they are innocent questions, like how certain things are done without magic, or fashion, or songs. Spero tells her what she can, things that she knows will not endanger her family back home.

She thinks that, in another time and place, she and Eloen could have been friends. Her mother would have told her that they still could be, but she can’t shake off the knowledge that the elvhen are not her people, not truly. The ones she is responsible for are the mortals of Thedas. They are the ones she will die to save, if she must.

_How very like your father,_ a voice seems to sneer at her in the silence of her mind. _Already choosing who is worthy of living and who must be sacrificed, little dread wolf?_

_I am not planning to destroy an entire world merely because I think it is not worthy of existence,_ she argues back, knowing that this battle is with herself. _If I were given the chance to go back in time and stop my father from trying to rend the veil at the cost of the lives of the people now living, I would not do it._

_Truly?_ The voice croons. _Not even for your mother?_

She is beginning to feel sick. She needs to think of something else now, or she fears where her thoughts will turn, and what Concern might pick up on. Eloen seems to notice her discomfort as well, as she tucks Spero’s hand into the crook of her arm and turns her toward a set of steps. “The steps lead up to a viewing balcony, where you can see the flowers below. They have been grown to create designs that you can only see from above.”

Spero allows herself to be drawn away, grateful that Eloen never asks her what is wrong. The pictures the flowers make are beautiful. Each colorful bloom like the panel in a stained glass chantry window, creating a scene that is both breathtaking and superfluous. She had always wondered at the splendor of the chantry. Why spend so much money on pretty windows when the people you claim to care for are starving in the streets at the foot of the cathedral?

Are there starving masses here in elvhenan? There must have been, once, to incite the rebellion her father had led to break free of the yoke of the evanuris. How many of these people suffered at the hands of those tyrants?

Do they look upon these pretty, petty gardens and think they are worth it?

* * *

She takes a bath to center herself.

Whenever she feels like she is going to shatter, that her new body can’t hold her old grief and anger, she locks herself in this room and sinks under the water and forgets who she is for a while; lets the water and the steam and the soft hum of the runes carved into the tiled floor calm her until she’s able to face whatever it is that had thrown her off-kilter that day.

She glances at the bath and the familiar smell that seems to rise with the steam. Then she spots the silvery leaves floating atop its surface and a small smile comes unbidden to her lips. She had told Eloen that silver tulsi was one of the only plants she’d recognized on their walk. There had been a bush of it in a corner of the chantry garden at Skyhold, and she’d spent many days of her childhood hiding in its leaves under Sera’s insistence, waiting to ambush the unsuspecting victims (mainly Josephine and Cassandra) who happened to walk by. She hadn’t told Eloen that part, but perhaps she had seen something of it on her face.

She slips beneath the surface and closes her eyes.

She can almost picture it in her head. How big everything seemed as she’d peered out from behind silver-green leaves.

_Sera giggles behind her, contorted at an odd angle to keep herself hidden behind the foliage. Spero sits between her legs, crouched and ready for her current target to turn the corner and come into lunging distance._

_“…we have a meeting with the Fereldan ambassador at noon,” Josephine calls, glancing down at a length of parchment. “And Leliana has a set of missives she wishes to discuss with you at your earliest convenience.”_

_“I’ll meet the ambassador and then speak with Leliana,” Her mother answers readily. “Has Morrigan returned from Orlais?”_

_“She should be here by nightfall…what is it, Inquisitor?”_

_“Oh nothing, Josephine.”_

_“You were looking distinctly at that bu—oh. Of course. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Shall we walk across the garden?”_

_“That sounds like a lovely idea, why don’t you go first?”_

_Josephine sighs, a long-suffering sound as if she had known it would end this way as she walks toward Spero’s hiding place. Spero giggles and leaps forward just as the flash of Josephine’s gold blouse catches her eye._

Spero lets out a low, quivering sigh. They’d always known where she was. Sera herself was too big to fully fit in the bush, and between the two of them laughing it was a wonder she thought herself stealthy enough for a true sneak attack. By the time she was old enough and skilled enough to have successfully done so, she had been beyond such things.

By that point, Josephine had rarely gone outside for long periods of time, not with her cough worsening. Any shock or surprise would send her into a coughing fit ending in drops of blood splattered across a handkerchief.

She needs to know if they’re safe. It’s killing her, not knowing. She presses her palms to her eyes to will the tears away as they slide down her cheeks. Not now. No tears now. She doesn’t have time for them.

“It is alright to cry.”

Spero nearly jumps at the words. As it were, her flinch causes the water to ripple and churn as she quickly turns to see Concern hovering near the doorway.

“Eloen told you not to come in when you have not been invited.” Spero lashes out, embarrassed. She is far more ashamed of being caught crying than being caught undressed.

“I am sorry.” The spirit apologizes again, as it seems to do often in her presence. She does not think it is only apologizing for coming in unannounced. It feels like the spirit is apologizing for her whole life.

Spero leans her head back, neck resting comfortably against the smooth edge of the bath. The stone is cool against her heated skin, in stark contrast to the water around her. _Think of something else._ Anything else to keep the spirit from looking even further into her distress. “Have you ever heard of an elf named Aelynthi?”

Concern seems taken aback by the sudden change of subject. It recovers quickly. “I have heard it in your thoughts, but nowhere else. It is a name I do not know.”

Spero sighs. “And the Isathe’len?”

“Nothing but fear. They are not spoken of lightly.” Concern continues, remorseful. “I am very young. I was not here when Fen’Harel first put up the veil. I do not know the stories of Elvhenan well.”

Of course not. That would have been too easy and convenient, for a spirit she knew who was willing to help her to have the information she needed.

“Most of the spirits here are new.” It insists. “The older spirits stay in the dreaming, if they are not serving one of the evanuris.”

“So I should go into the dreaming then, to find an older spirit.” _Or ask one of the servants here._ But for some reason this information seems important. She does not know how or why, but she feels an urgent need to find out the truth.

“If you go, I will go with you.” Concern responds. “That will be best.”

Spero nearly rolls her eyes. “Are you concerned _of_ me or _for_ me?”

Concern pauses for a moment. “Both.” It concludes.

Well, it is an honest answer, at least, even if it does not help her in deciding the spirit’s motives.

“I will try to find an older spirit, so that you may speak with it and get your answers.” Concern decides. “That will be the safest way. That way you will not wander and get lost or hurt yourself.”

_Or find out something you do not wish me to know_ , she thinks, and feels guilty for a moment. Concern is only a spirit; she doubts it has any ulterior motives. But it is still her father’s, in a way, and so she cannot trust it.

If Concern catches her thoughts on the manner it does not mention them.

“I will begin searching.” Concern continues, body rippling with some excitement. “You will feel more at ease when you have your answers, so I will help.” Then it disappears, dissolving into soft light that mixes with the steam rising from the baths before it is gone completely.

* * *

Thin, white trees sprout from the earth, disappearing into a hazy mist, their outlines blurring the further up they reach. They seem to stretch upward for miles, and she can make out odd, flickering shapes, the mist curling as something disturbs it. The picture the Fade is painting for her is one she is not familiar with; it is not a reflection of any of her memories.

It is quiet, like a tomb, but it is not ominous, not yet. Solemn, perhaps, but not threatening. Still, her hands itch for a weapon she does not possess.

It is the first time in a long while that her dreams in the Fade are an unknown. The last time had not been pleasant. But this does not feel like the same place. Then again, the darkened hallways had not seemed threatening in the beginning either. She keeps moving.

It seems dangerous to remain standing still.

Deeper into the woods the trees become thicker. Their roots cover most of the ground, and she has to watch where she places her feet. Some of the roots seem to move on their own accord, lifting just as she means to step. She nearly twists her ankle once, catching herself against the rough-bark of a nearby tree, handfuls off it sloughing off beneath her palms like a snake shedding its skin.

A sparrow flits to the branch of the tree to her right and gives a soft chirp. It pierces through the silence like a scream and Spero winces at the sound. The bird takes flight, wingtips skimming the underlying foliage as it dips. Spero follows, if only because the bird is the only living creature she has come across. She does not count the odd shapes that seem to drift in the mist above her, or rather, she does not wish to think of them.

The bird moves from tree to tree, pausing for her to navigate the twisted roots of the forest floor. It is leading her somewhere, likely nowhere pleasant, but she follows nonetheless.

She walks for what feels like hours, following the small bird through the woods until they reach a clearing.

The clearing is the size of Skyhold’s great hall, surrounded on all sides by the same long, white-barked trees that seem to stretch upward infinitely through the fog. The roots give way to ash-colored grass beneath her feet—was she barefoot before? She cannot remember.

The sparrow comes to circle her a few times, chittering excitedly, before it darts away. Spero tracks it with her eyes, as the bird seems to dance through the air, weaving in and out of the mist and branches. It moves into the center of the clearing, just as an odd ripple of magic seems to move through the air.

Spero tries to call out a warning, but her voice catches in her throat.

The bird lets out an odd screech, contorting in the air, wings outstretched as if some invisible hands grip it. She moves forward subconsciously, hand outstretch. Just as her fingers skim one outstretched wing, the bird shatters like glass. She throws her arms p to shield her face, feeling small slivers cut into her skin.

When she lowers her arms, a shield and sword lie at her feet. The shield is shaped like an outstretched wing, and the hilt of the sword clutches the blade with bronze talons. She is not certain what this means, but if she is being offered weapons, it is likely she will need them. _Nothing in this world is free_ , a voice in the back of her head warns, and she knows that all too well. But the idea of being unarmed here is even more disconcerting.

She tries to cast a healing spell to stop the bleeding as she picks several large, feather-shaped pieces of glass out of her arm, but the magic will not do as she wills. Her healing magic in the waking world is minimal, so she supposes it makes sense that even here she cannot make it do as she wills. She will have to be content with wrapping it herself. She tears off a bit of fabric at the end of her tunic and clumsily wraps it around the wounds. The clearings seems more like a prison cell than an open field now. She tests to see whether she can wake herself and finds she cannot. That…that is not a pleasant revelation.

She swallows, taking a few more steps forward as she tries to come up with a plan of attack. She is not in danger yet, but her quickest and safest escape route, should she need it, has disappeared. The air to her left seems to warp, caving in on itself, and she takes several quick steps to the side, sword gripped tightly in her hand and at the ready.

“I have found a spirit that knows something.” Concern appears beside her, a shifting mass in the mist. It pauses when it spots the sword in her hand and the shield strapped to her still bleeding arm. “Where did you get those?”

“A bird gave them to me.” Spero explains, and knows that it is not a satisfactory answer. But the air has been steadily growing thinner and colder, and she does not think they have time for long explanations. “Where is the spirit?”

“Not far.” Concern moves forward. “You should not take things you find in the dreaming.”

“I think it would be less wise not to take them.” Spero murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. The creaking of the trees has all but stopped, and the wind that had whistled past their thin forms has stilled. “What kind of spirit are you bringing me to?”

“A spirit of Curiosity.” Concern replies readily. It ripples, a bit like a cat raising its hackles before it hisses. “Something is wrong here.”

“Yes.” Spero agrees. “We should leave now.” Concern floats forward and Spero follows, their pace hurried. Tree limbs seem to move in her periphery, becoming grasping hands, but if she turns to look at them directly they become branches once more. The mist shifts around them.

It is getting darker.

“I am—”

“Concerned?” Spero quips, if only because the silence around them needs to be shattered. The light is fading quickly, the mist becoming a dark churning mess of shadows, the darkened outlines of trees barely visible in their depths.

“Yes.” Concern whispers. “I am _very_ concerned. The dreaming should not be this distorted here.”

“Are there places where it _is_ very distorted?” Spero asks, alarmed. She has never heard of such things, herself.

“Places too close to other places.” Concern responds.

She doesn’t have time to ask what Concern means. All light disappears, like a candle snuffed out by an errant breeze, and Spero barely has time to summon a handful of veilfire before a hulking shape crashes through the trees toward them. The veilfire flickers, unsteady. She has never been good with summoning fire, but even this seems weaker than she is used to. As if the light is being eaten away, little by little, small flames around the edges curling into misty smoke and mixing with the shadows that are pressing in around them.

She jumps to the side to avoid the oncoming charge. The creature stumbles past her, and it is too dark for her to discern anything other than that it is large. She does not have time to think, because more shapes begin to move toward them into her small circle of light.

Concern is at her back, its body giving off a steady glow. “You need to leave.” Spero lunges, the edge of her blade skimming across tough hide. “There are too many of them.”

“I cannot leave you.” Concern responds.

“Get help.” Spero gasps, moving to the side as a massive claw comes down where she had once stood. She lets out a shout, slicing cleanly through the limb. A shrieking wail issues from somewhere above her, and blood splatters against her face.

“I cannot leave you,” Concern repeats.

“GO!” Spero shouts, and it feels like her voice is eaten up by the silence. She will not be responsible for the death of a sympathetic spirit. It is too much like Cole, she cannot let it down. She does not wish to see it shatter before her, leaking out into the Fade as Cole’s spirit had seeped out from his corpse and turned to dust in her small hands.

Her hands are larger now and so is her fear. She cannot physically shove Concern out of the Fade, but imagines doing so in her head, and is surprised when Concern begins to flicker. The spirit itself looks confused, before it locks its gaze with her. “ _I cannot leave you_ ,” It tries one more time, but Spero shoves once more, and there is a crack in the air eaten up by the shadows and she turns to face the beasts alone.

The beast she has cut comes for her first, and she manages to slice it across its flank as it barrels past. But before she can turn to attack it again she is besieged by another creature, another swipe of angry claws the size of daggers, and she must block with her shield lest she be torn to ribbons.

The darkness presses in on her, her veilfire nearly gone now, barely giving off enough light to see the outlines of the hulking monsters that circle her. She can hear their labored breathing, the click of their claws against stone—where did the forest go, she wonders? Their breath smells like rotting things, and it makes her stomach clench.

She takes a step back and nearly falls, catching herself and feinting to the left before she swipes at the nearest opponent. The creature twists, and Spero throws up her shield just as its claws come down. They rake across the surface, sparks flickering in the air and the screech of metal against metal rings in her ears.

There are too many of them. She will not make it out of here. She knows what happens to mages who die in the fade. _Tranquil_ , her mind whispers, and she swallows back her fear. No. There is too much anger and hate in her to be made tranquil. She will not allow it!

She sees a glint of light, a flicker in the all-consuming darkness of a sky above her and she throws up her shield and ducks behind it as a cascade of starlight-laced arrows tear through the air. She hears the shrieks of creatures in their death throws, and stands shakily to see that the ground is littered with both bodies and arrows.

The air around her becomes less pervasive. The shadows have become a dark, smoky mist rather than an encompassing blackness. She hears footsteps and holds up her sword, swallowing.

A tall elf walks into the clearing and grins, one hand on his staff. Its gemstone begins to fade, but the light looks distinctly the same as the arrows that had saved her. All she sees in the hazy mist is a vallaslin she cannot identify and piercing violet eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to all of my readers. Your kudos and comments are much appreciated, and really make the whole process seem worthwhile when I know that people are enjoying what I write. So thank you once again everyone, you are amazing, wonderful people.


	6. non facias malum ut inde fiat bonum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> non facias malum ut inde fiat bonum - you should not make evil in order that good may be made from it

She is jerked out of the Fade and back into her body.

Her spirit seems to snap back into place, and her body feels heavy and real again. Standing over her is her father, his hands on her shoulders and a brightness to his eyes that is akin to panic, though it fades quickly as he assesses her and she wonders if she simply imagined it in the half-light.

“What were you doing?” He demands.

Concern hovers near the doorway. It is smaller than it had been before. Or perhaps denser is the proper word. As if all of its gentle concerns and worries have solidified into a quivering mass. So Concern had gone to warn her father of the attack, then. She _did_ tell it to go and get help, so she shouldn’t be surprised that it went first and foremost to him.

“I am alright.” She brushes his hands off as she sits up. It feels like she has been shoved back into her body upside down and the world spins a bit. Her arm, she notices, is still covered in a myriad of cuts from the glass. There is a gash on her leg from one of the beasts she does not remember getting.

Her father presses a glowing hand to her leg and she watches as the skin begins to knit itself back together, the pain easing.  “Do you know what attacked you?” His voice is even and calm again.

“A spirit of some kind, I assume.” She answers shortly. She does not enjoy his concern, or his mothering. He slides into the role so easily that it annoys her.

Abelas stands in the doorway. She wonders if he ever sleeps, or if he does so standing guard outside Solas’ chambers. Does her father ever sleep? It seems like such an odd notion. She has never thought of him doing such mundane things before. He grabs her arm and begins to heal the cuts there after he finishes with her leg.

“What did it look like?” Solas questions, sitting on the edge of the bed. He pauses as he notices her state of undress and shifts so she can pull the coverlet up to cover herself. She doesn’t like being so vulnerable in front of him, but there seems to be nothing she can do about it. It is not being naked that bothers her in and of itself, but the matter of being without armor. Nothing to protect her from unseen blades or magic. Not that any armor would protect her if the Dread Wolf decided to bite. She has heard the tales of him turning people to stone with a glance. No amount of armor would protect her from that, she thinks.

“There were multiple creatures.” She explains. It does not seem a bad idea to mention them or the danger they presented. Not if they have the potential to hurt anyone else who stumbles across them in the Fade. “But they seemed to be one in the same. They felt as if they were one creature.”

“It is likely one of the other evanuris are behind the attack.” Abelas intones. “They would be strong enough to get past any simple barriers and send their servants into the Dreaming.”

Solas nods. “I will strengthen the wards here.”

She bites back a retort. It feels as if she is being imprisoned once again. Trapped in this castle, and now even her dreams will be limited to the space he deems safe. But she cannot argue that she can protect herself in this case. She had been overwhelmed by numbers, and if this is really an attack from the other evanuris then she cannot handle them on her own.

But something tells her it was not the evanuris that were behind those creatures. What was it that Concern had said? About distortions in the dreaming? Places close to other places. It had not made sense then, and it still does not now, but she does not think that whatever lives in these places is the evanuris.

Concern seems to hear her line of thoughts and shakes it head. It does not, however, say anything aloud. Because it does not think it is important? Or because it knows she does not wish to say anything to her father? Perhaps it had told him before all of this, when it had gone to him for help and he’d pulled her out of the Fade, so there is no need to bring it up now.

She glances out the window and sees that the sky is still dark. She has not been asleep for long, then, and she is still tired. But she cannot possibly protect herself again, if the creatures were to return. And there is the matter of _him_ , the one who had saved her.

_"Hello Mythallen.”_

Mythallen. Child of Mythal. Child of Vengeance. But how does that relate to her? That was the only thing he’d said to her before she’d been pulled back by Solas.

“Is it…” She swallows, and she hates how hesitant and weak and young it makes her sound. “Is it safe to go back to sleep?”

Her father’s shoulders slump a bit in relief—perhaps he was expecting her to say something else? And his expression softens as he gazes at her. It looks like he wishes to reach out, but he keeps his hands where they are. “Yes,” He nods. “I will strengthen the wards. It is safe here.”

She does not think he means just the Fade, but she does not want to think about the implications of her accepting those words. Of accepting this place as somewhere safe. To think of it as a haven. A possible home. It would be easier for her, if she did. She promised her mother she would stay with him, and that means here. But she does not want to like it. She cannot _allow_ herself to. It is too much of a betrayal to her family still fighting on the front lines. Family that could be dead or dying even now.

“I wish to sleep, then.” She says curtly, looking down at her hands. She does not want to look at him any more. His expression is too open. _Do not look at me with such concern when you let my mother die. I will never forgive you for killing her. Do not expect anything from me._ She wants to shout these things at him, but the words catch in her throat along with her mother’s voice.

_He is so lonely, little bird. Love him enough for the both of us._

Never. Never. She wraps her furs around her and turns her back to him, staring at the wall. She hears him sigh and the creak of the bed as he stands and makes his way to the door. The lighting in the room dims and the door closes.

“Concern?” She calls out in a whisper, as the silence stretches in the darkness.

“I am here.” It answers. A few moments later it settles onto the bed beside her. It is not an entirely physical form, but it is solid enough that she can see the furs dip under it. She does not know why it’s presence is a comfort in this moment when it is usually such an annoyance.

“Your mother loved you very, very much.” Concern says, brushing a tendril across her forehead. It is warm and gentle. She wants to bat it away, because that is what she feels she _should_ do, but instead she lets her eyes close.

 _It has been a long night,_ she thinks to herself. _And a confusing one. I am allowed to seek comfort when it is offered._

Still, it takes her several hours to fall back asleep. Concern remains at her side, and when she wakes in the morning, it is still there.

* * *

By the time she finishes combat training with Abelas her body feels heavy and her muscles strained. There’s an ache between her shoulder blades, a familiar and comforting soreness that tells her she’s improving. She’s always enjoyed that burn. It is a sign that she’s pushing herself.

She leapt into training this morning with the vigor of someone who doesn’t wish to have the energy or time to think and it has been successful so far.

Abelas motions for her to take a break and she trudges toward the fountain nearby as she strips off her dueling leathers. It’s hot, and the material that makes up the clothing her father has given to her feels foreign against her skin as it sticks to her back with sweat. She grabs the pitcher from the side of the fountain and upturns it over her head.

She’s wiping the water from her face when Abelas returns with another elf in tow; a tall elf with skin the color of a night sky and Mythal’s vallaslin in white upon her face. Everything about her is severe; her clothes, her hair, and her countenance. Her skin seems to be pulled taught over bone with nothing in between. She looks Spero over, assessing and stern.

“This is Kivessin,” Abelas nods at the woman. She is taller even than he, or perhaps it is merely her thinness that aids in the illusion. “She will be teaching you offensive magic.” With that he turns to leave. He never strays far, not since her father had appointed him to watch her, but he seems to find their arrangement as unsatisfactory as she does and tries to make himself scarce when he can.

She will admit that he is easier to endure when they are training.

“I have been told that you work primarily with lightning,” The female elf looks her over, her voice deep and low. “Show me.”

It is not difficult to summon sparks. They dance in her palm easily. In fact, they seem to come much faster than she is used to, and the charge in them builds exponentially, lighting singing through her veins like she is drunk off lyrium and cracks in the air around her. It surprises and worries her, as arcs of electricity leap in the space between herself and Kivessin. This is not how her magic should be working. It has never manifested so easily and with such force. She had only meant to summon a handful of sparks, but the entire training yard crackles and is heavy with the air of a thunderstorm.

“Enough,” Kivessin says curtly, throwing up a barrier as an errant bolt shoots toward them.

She lets go of the spell, dissipates it, and is left shaking softly. What is wrong with her body? Her magic has never been this raw and potent before. Is it a side effect of her new immortality? Or perhaps the fact that the veil is down, and there is not barrier she needs to pull the magic through?

She had not paid much attention to it when she had been summoning barriers at Abelas’ behest, but even those had felt stronger than before, now that she thinks about it.

“Your control is lacking.”

Spero nods, oddly ashamed. With whatever changes have been forced upon her, she no longer possesses the control of her magic she once did. It is irritating. It makes her feel like she is a young child again, setting things aflame in her anger.

“Your magic is stronger here.” Concern supplies at her thoughtful expression. It turns to Kivessin. “Her discipline is not lacking. She has been given more magic than she is used to. It is hard to hold it all back now that there is more.”

Spero does not need to be defended by a spirit. But Kivessin nods and looks her over critically. “Then until you can summon this new amount properly, we will refrain from any major spell casting. Control is the most important aspect of lightning. Without it you are more a liability to your allies and yourself than a threat to your enemies.”

Spero nods again. It is true, there is nothing else she can do until she masters this new potency in her magic. She looks down at her hands and frowns. She does not like change, especially not within her own body. But her stubbornness has its positive notes. She will not rest until she has discovered how to gauge and use this new power within her.

They spend the rest of the afternoon at the task. Kivessin has her summon lightning in varying increments, maintaining small amounts of it and holding the magic close so that she can feel its new flows and eddies. Despite Kivessin’s sharp tone and frown, Spero thinks she is a good teacher. She feels more at ease with this skeletal-thin elf than with Abelas, at least.

The shadows in the courtyard have grown long by the time Eloen arrives, skirts swirling dust from the training grounds in their wake. She pauses before Kivessin and Abelas, who stands on the other side of the yard. She glances nervously at the dark-skinned elf.  “Fen’Harel wishes to outfit her with new armor,” Eloen nods her head at them both. “I will bring her back when we are finished.”

“There is no need,” Kivessin responds, “We are finished for the day.”

Spero gives a small bow. Kivessin has been patient and deserves the acknowledgment. She does not bow back, but she gives a sharp jerk of her chin that is almost a nod. Spero turns to Eloen, “Where are we headed?”

“The armorer works in the same area as the swordsmith who is crafting your blade,” Eloen explains, tucking Spero’s arm in the crook of her elbow and leading her out of the grounds. When they are safely out of earshot Eloen shudders. “She is awful, isn’t she?”

“Kivessin?” Spero shrugs. “I did not mind her. At least she is not as sour-faced as Abelas.”

Eloen looks at her askance. “Abelas? He is…well, he is rather handsome, isn’t he?” A soft tint of pink brushes across her cheeks. “I think his air of melancholy is intriguing.”

Spero snorts. She should have realized that Eloen would be a romantic. Cassandra would feel the same, she thinks, if she were to ever spend time with him. Romantics always find that kind of despair and loneliness attractive. Spero does not share that opinion. But she keeps it to herself, as Eloen steers her down the street.

“A message arrived saying your new blade would be finished within the week.” Eloen continues, “I have already looked over it, of course. I needed to know which designs and metals the armorer should use to match.”

“As long as it fits and does its job it does not need to look nice.”

“That may have been the case where you lived _before_ ,” Eloen stresses, “But it is very important that your appearance reflects your status.”

“I thought Fen’Harel wished to do away with those ideas.”

Eloen pauses. “Yes, he…well, the rest of the evanuris will not feel the same way.” She settles on that line of thinking instead. “And neither will their servants.” Sometimes Spero forgets that Eloen was not originally a part of Solas’ court. She is first and foremost a servant of Sylaise. She is no revolutionary. Likely she was content with her place in Sylaise’ court and the position she held. Or at least content with the system that governed it.

“It will not take long. They just need to take some measurements and do a few preliminary chest plate fittings.”

* * *

Eloen says it will not take long, but Spero finds herself stuck with someone poking and prodding and measuring her for several hours before she escapes. She walks into the main keep only to learn that her father wishes to speak with her.

She is hungry, and tired, and she does not like seeing him even when she is well-rested and well-fed, but she follows the unknown servant to her father’s office. There is a decanter of wine and a light meal set out on a table near his desk. She doesn’t wish to feel grateful, but she mumbles a “thank you” and sits to eat. She dislikes him, but she has manners.

“I am sure you are wondering why I have sent for tutors and am outfitting you for new armor and weaponry.”

She blinks. She had not thought too deeply about it. She had assumed it was his way of trying to connect with her.

Solas looks down at the roll of parchment in his hands. “In one month we will be venturing to Arlathan to attend a meeting with the remaining evanuris. I cannot keep them away for much longer. It will be best to have you presented before them while I am present.”

She stills, the wine in her mouth turning sour as she swallows. The evanuris. The self-proclaimed gods that are, ultimately, the reason for all of this mess. Magisters with differently shaped ears. She has no desire to walk into that particular den of vipers, but she supposes there is no helping it.

The real question is, will she be able to keep herself from attacking them on sight?

Solas sees her frown and seems to think it is one of concern. “If you have any questions about them, feel free to ask. They are likely very different than anyone has told you.”

“I am not Dalish,” Spero snaps in irritation, “I have no illusions of grandeur about you or the rest of them.”

Solas winces softly, a twitch of his lips that disappears within seconds. “Well then, you understand why I am concerned.”

“Why must I meet them?” Because she doubts that they know anything about her or think she is more important than she is.

Solas looks at her as if the answer should be obvious. “You are my daughter. That alone provides you with enough distinction to warrant a place among them.”

She can’t hide the disgust on her face. Oh yes, she had forgotten how much they care for rank and status. Even when they hate her father, they will still elevate him and those of his blood because they, at least, are of proper lineage. Just like the Orlesian nobility she remembers from her childhood.

“I do not wish to be a part of that circle. Tell them I decline.”

Solas sighs and shakes his head. As if dealing with an unruly and ignorant child. She does not enjoy that look. “The rank you hold here could help turn the tide of this war.”

“For which side?” She sneers. “I am not a member of your court or your ally, Dread Wolf.” He hates it when she calls him that. She can see it in the line of his shoulders and the way his lips press tightly together as he searches for his next words.

“I am not your enemy, ma ‘ashalan,” He says softly, weary and somewhat pleading.

 _You are a murderer. You killed my mother. You killed Dorian, and Cole, and Sera, and Dagna, and Vivienne, and Blackwall, and Harding, and Bull. They were the price paid for pride’s folly and you will_ never _be anything to me but a murderer._

“Anyone who fights against my family is my enemy,” She says instead, trying to calm the cold fury inside of her. She wants him to know. To know that he is not her family. That he has destroyed and maimed it beyond recognition. He can keep his weary despair and his pleading. She has no stomach for it.

“I do not wish to fight them,” Solas replies. She can see the hurt in his eyes. She can see it because his eyes are like her own and no matter how hard he tries to hide it; she knows those eyes. She waits for the grim pleasure at his pain to surface, but all she feels is anger. “And with your power added to mine and a position among the evanuris you can protect them.”

She knows it’s true, but she is doubtful that it will happen. It will mean living here with these people for a long while. Becoming _one_ of them. Just the mere thought of it turns her stomach. It is a betrayal to the people that have died fighting the evanuris. To the Inquisition and all they stand for.

“I do not want power.” Not that kind. She wants the power to kill them and protect her family. Raw, primal power. Not some misconstrued and constructed rank bestowed upon her by her enemies. Leliana has taught her the ways of spies but she would make a bad one, she knows that. She cannot play the role of a double agent convincingly.

“Whether you want it or not, it is yours.” Solas says calmly. “The evanuris will not stand idly by for much longer now that they know of your existence. And we need to discover who was behind the attack upon you in the Dreaming.”

 _It is the Fade, not the Dreaming_ , she thinks, just because she needs to be argumentative, even if it is only in her thoughts. She places her goblet down and sighs. There is no way around this, she supposes. At the very least she can measure them up and decide how much of a threat they all are. Perhaps, if she is lucky, she might find a way to kill one.

A thought crosses her mind as she stands. “I have seen Andruil on the battlefield.” The day Bull died, she remembers it with cold clarity. “I do not know if she will remember me.” She is probably too beneath the Huntress to merit remembering, not even when they had locked gazes and she had lifted her sword in a promise of retribution.

“If she remembers you, I will handle the explanations,” Solas decides. He seems pleased at her acceptance of the situation.

“What _is_ your explanation for me?” _How will you present me to them? What lies will you tell that I must be complicit in?_

“You are my daughter. I have kept you hidden since your birth until you came into your power. That is all they need to know and all you need to tell them if they ask.”

“And my mother?” She asks softly. She fears that if she raises her voice it will turn into a scream. “What will you say of her?”

There is a long, strained pause as Solas looks at her. She can see it on his face, that his answer will not please her. That he does not wish to do it but he must. She imagines he has worn this visage often. When he plays the part of the reluctant villain _: woe is me, he who must take the mantle upon myself with regret. Look at my sacrifices and pity me._ “I will not say anything.”

“If they ask me who my mother is, I will not lie. I am not ashamed to be the daughter of a mortal elf. She and I are not lesser people for it.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t!” She is shouting. She cannot remember raising her voice to him before, and it certainly shocks them both. But she merely balls her hands into fists and continues. If she does not, she fears she might cry. And she would rather he strike her for yelling at him then let him see her cry. “You thought we were nothing. And you killed her. You would have killed me and you will continue to kill my family and my people because you still believe they are less than you.”

“Spero—”

“You truly are one of the evanuris. Everything they stood for I see in you. You are no different.” She takes a step back. “I do not want to look at you.” She turns toward the door. “I will be ready to meet _your kind_ when the time comes. Do not speak to me before then.”

She leaves the room with legs weak with anger and fear and nearly collapses in the hallway. She does not look at Abelas as she passes him. She knows he was listening at the door. She does not want to see the judgment on his face.

She has heard the tales of the temple of Mythal. She knows what he once said to her mother.

 _“"Our" people? The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? You are_ not _my people.”_

That is fine. She does not wish to be considered his people anyway. He is certainly not one of hers. Her people are fighting and dying to defend their way of life. Simply to prove that they deserve to live.

 _I hate you all_ , she thinks. _I will never be one of your people_. _I hate you all_.

* * *

She awakens in the Fade and it is as she remembers. The Emerald Graves again, though this time she finds herself sitting beside a large statue of a wolf guardian. She frowns at it on impulse.

It has been weeks, and each time she wakes in the Fade her sword and shield are within easy reach. But nothing untoward has happened since the night she was attacked. She spends the first few nights looking over her new weapon. The blade and shield do not follow her into the waking world when she awakens, so she wonders if they are truly there or not. She is not entirely certain how that works.

Concern is her constant companion, both in the waking world and the dreaming one. It hovers nearby even now, looking around the clearing. It has gotten better at refraining from digging into her thoughts and voicing them, though she does not know if that is due to her own training with Eloen or Concern’s doing.

“You were very angry when you came back. Your father is worried.” Concern floats closer.

“I do not care if he is worried,” She snaps.

“Your mother cared.”

“I am not my mother. And neither are you, so you know nothing of how she felt.” Spero doesn’t mean to get angry with Concern. The spirit is foolish and irritating and intrusive, but it does not deserve her wrath simply for its nature. She knows that, and she feels guilty, but she cannot help herself. She had gone to sleep furious and woken up here in the same way. She does not think she knows how to be anything other than angry anymore.

“I am sorry.”

“Do not apologize. It is fine.” She bites out. She can feel the image before her shifting with her emotions. The sky is darker and the trees look less inviting. The earth beneath her is cold and dry, the grass turning brittle. It takes her several moments to collect herself and return it to normal.

She tries to change the wolf statue behind her, but no matter how much she wills it away it will not go. Perhaps it is part of the wards that her father has set up. _Of course he would make it a statue of a wolf,_ she thinks with a derisive snort.

A twig snaps and she is on her feet in an instant, sword at the ready and her shield braced in front of her.

“When Fen’Harel locks off a piece of the Dreaming, he does it well,” The violet-eyed elf mutters as he steps out from between two trees, looking around the clearing.  “It’s taken days to find a path in.”

“Who are you?” She demands. He may have saved her, but that does not necessarily make him an ally. And she has not trusted an elf in a very long while, and she trusts ones with vallaslin even less. Especially ones with a vallaslin she does not recognize.

He stops a few feet away and looks her over. “You really do look like him.”

If he wishes to put her at ease, he is doing horribly. Her glower increases and her grip on her sword tightens. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, yes,” He waves her off, sliding down to lean against a boulder, his staff on the ground within reaching distance. “I am not your father’s ally.” He states. “I was once, of course. But our friendship ended a bit abruptly.”

“That is not a name.”

“But you didn’t ask for a _name_ ,” He grins, “You asked who I _was_. And I told you. I am not your father’s ally.” She looks down at her sword pointedly and he sighs, “Oh very well. You’re no fun at all. For someone who doesn’t want to be her father you certainly act like him. My name is Felassan.”

Felassan? She has heard of him from Briala, briefly. She had not spoken with the woman often, but she had overheard her speaking with her mother on several occasions about the eluvian network and old allies. He had been killed while in the Fade and his body had followed shortly thereafter. Not even tranquil, just dead. Briala had speculated that it was Fen’Harel who had done the deed, after everything about him had come to light.

It would make sense why Felassan would no longer be her father’s ally, then. If what he is saying is true.

“You died.” She states, but she looks at him askance. Is he a demon? A leftover piece of Felassan from when her father killed him in the Fade?

“Only briefly.” Felassan shrugs, “Enough to make things extremely difficult for me for a while.” He glances around the clearing briefly and settles his gaze on Concern. “Are you her babysitter?”

“I am…I am not a babysitter,” It settles on, but does not elaborate. So it _has_ been sent to be a minder of some sort, then. Though really, she has suspected that since its initial appearance.

“We cannot have you running off to tell my old friend about this,” Felassan lifts his hand, only to find Spero standing in his path, between him and the spirit.

“Do not touch Concern.” She growls. Whatever she thinks of the spirit, it does not deserve to be killed simply because Felassan wishes for anonymity. She does not trust Concern, but she trusts Felassan less.

“Do you want your father breathing down your neck for the rest of your life, Mythallen?”

“Do not call me that.” She snaps, before turning to Concern. It is true, she does wish to know what is going on and Felassan seems to have some kind of idea… “Can you promise not to speak of this to Fen’Harel?”

Concern looks torn. “He is _very_ concerning,” It says at last, meaning Felassan no doubt.

“It is your nature. If you didn’t have something to be concerned with who knows what you’d become? Just think of it as helping you maintain yourself.” Felassan says cheerfully. “Or else I really will have to destroy you, and it looks like that will make the little wolf hate me.”

Spero continues to glare at him, even as Concern seems to convulse, caving in on itself a bit as it droops. “I will not say anything about this,” Concern says finally, “But I do not approve.”

“Well, now that that’s settled,” Felassan leans back against the rock and laces his hands over his stomach. “Shall we chat?”

She doesn’t want to give away her advantage, but she lowers herself down to sit a few feet away, her sword resting across her thighs and the shield at her side. “Why do you call me that?”

“Hm?”

“Mythallen.”

“Because that is what you are.” Felassan states simply. He cocks his head to the side. “You haven’t realized it yet, have you? He did not tell you.”

“Tell me what?” She snaps. She does not have time for riddles, or smug elves who are supposed to be dead. _That_ is something she wishes to ask. She will demand the answers on that front after she discovers what it is that her father has kept from her this time.

“When he changed your body, he had to give you a piece of the elvhen so that you would survive the transition.” Felassan explains. “A piece of Mythal that he once tore from her shadow, the one they called Flemmeth. He placed it inside of you.”

 _What_?

“Is it true?” She turns to Concern, who shrinks back at the weight of her stare. That reaction alone is enough of an answer, but Concern speaks nonetheless.

“It was to save you,” Concern says, “It was the only thing he could think of. The only way to keep the poison from you. He was so _worried_.”

It explains everything. How off-kilter her anger has been lately. How the rage has seemed to increase tenfold whenever he is near. It is not entirely her own.

“I think your father miscalculated how well suited you and Mythal are.” Felassan studies her, eyes seeming to look deep into her skin to the ball of energy that settles below her heart. “He always prided himself on his ability to understand others.” He smiles slowly, and it is not a kind smile. “And things rarely go the way he anticipates because of it.”

“Is Mythal controlling me, then?” She doesn’t like the idea that her own thoughts are not her own. How _dare_ he place this inside of her and not tell her? It is not his right to do these things. And now she will forever be second-guessing every decision she makes, wondering if it is hers or not. Her hatred and anger now are not entirely her own and that is frightening.

Felassan shakes his head. “I do not think you need to worry overmuch. As I said, you are similar. You both desire fervently the same thing, Mythallen.”

Vengeance.

She swallows. “I do not like the idea of someone controlling my thoughts.”

“She does not control them. She is only…nudging them in a desired direction.” Felassan extrapolates, gesturing with his arms spread wide. “And if it weren’t a direction you were already inclined to go in, she wouldn’t be able to assert so much dominance. So really, she’s only doing what you want, just more desperately. Dead demi-gods tend to be desperate.”

“And you? How desperate are dead elves?”

“I am not dead. I told you,” Felassan sighs, rolling his eyes. “I was only dead for a bit, and not entirely so. Just...mostly dead. It’s a terrible feeling, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“And how did you keep yourself from being _entirely_ dead, then?” Her tone is sharp, she knows, but it doesn’t seem to deter Felassan. His smile remains.

“I had help. A failsafe, if you will. In case Fen’Harel decided that I was no longer of use to him. I didn’t believe he’d turn on me simply for suggesting that modern elves were worth saving but here we are,” he lifts his hands and shrugs. “I suppose she knew him better than I did after all.”

“Who? Mythal?” She leans forward unconsciously. If what Felassan says is the truth, it means that he agreed that the elves were worth it. That _her people_ are worth it. That means more to her than anything. But she cannot trust him, not yet.

Mythal is the only ancient elf Spero thinks would possess the ability to bring someone back from the dead—or keep them from entirely dying, as it were. She was the only one left, even if she had been in the form of Flemmeth. But her power had been watered down then, not nearly enough to stand against the Dread Wolf.

Felassan shakes his head. “No, not Mythal. But someone of similar power.”

“Is it their vallaslin you wear?” She asks, motioning to his face.

Felassan’s smile grows. “You are sharper than I expected you to be. But your father was crafty as well. There is a reason he became known as the trickster. And your mother, I am told, was also an intelligent woman.”

“She was,” Spero agrees softly. Now is not the time to think of her mother, though. Her grief is not needed here.

“But it is not her vallaslin I wear,” Felassan shakes his head. “Though I would wear it gladly, if she were to suggest it. I wear the vallaslin of another. He sleeps still.”

June or Elgar’nan? No. She knows _their_ vallaslin. Then…she stills. There were others, once, she remembers. Her mother and Merrill had told her so, but they had been mentioned only briefly. “The Forgotten Ones.”

“The _Isathe’len_ ,” Felassan corrects. “They have hungered for freedom and release for a very long while. I think it is time they have it.”

 


	7. Cassandra's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short piece, from Cassandra's POV.

The Inquisitor is not Andrastian, Cassandra knows. She does not find solace in the Chant, or in Mother Giselle’s soft-spoken sermons. She comes and listens, sometimes, at the back of the room, a thoughtful frown upon her face.

There is no contempt in her, and Cassandra does wonder at that. Cassandra is not blind; she knows what has been done to the elves in the name of The Maker. And she knows that the Inquisitor knows these things as well.

And still the Inquisitor stands in the back of the small chapel, and listens with a thoughtful frown. She worships her own gods. The Dalish way, even if she no longer wears vallaslin upon her face. Dorian mentions it once, on one of their last outings before the war really begins.

“If what Solas said is true, it means they weren’t really gods after all, doesn’t it?”

“The symbols they stood for are real. The comfort they gave my people when there was no hope left was real.” Inquisitor Lavellan had said softly, “Why can I not still believe in that, when it brings me solace?”

No one had mentioned it since.

When Spero is born, Cassandra wonders if the Inquisitor will allow her to be taught any of it. From a very young age, Spero seems to know more than she should. She is quiet, and she listens. She hears what people say about Solas, and even though no one tells her, Cassandra can see that she knows who he is to her.

For a very long while, she seems intent on doing everything she can to _not_ be an elf. She disregards her mother’s lessons about the Dalish, and scampers off to play with Sera, who seems to enjoy her rebellion quite thoroughly.

And after a while, she starts coming to listen to Mother Giselle with Cassandra. There are others she could go with, Cassandra knows. Others that have helped raise her that follow the faith. But Cullen prays in solitude, and Leliana prays in silence, and Varric does not pray at all.

So Cassandra sits with her, when Spero decides to go, a small slip of a thing sitting on the edge of a worn pew. And while she is not certain if the reason that Spero decides to come is the right one, she feels a small relief in knowing that she is listening to The Maker’s words. That perhaps she can find solace in them the same way her mother does in her gods. Peace of mind is something they all need.

And even if Spero tells her earnestly, that she is not sure she likes all the things they say, she also says she wants to keep listening.

Mother Giselle’s sermon on Parent’s Day is beautiful. Cassandra sits near the front, little Spero sitting as still as she can on the bench beside her. She fidgets every few moments, but keeps her eyes straight ahead, earnestly listening.

When the sermon ends, Spero hops off the stool and goes to ask Mother Giselle questions, as she often does. Cassandra finishes her own private prayers as she waits to take her back to the kitchens for something to eat, and does not think about it further.

Around the middle of the afternoon, however, Spero walks across the training yard and shoves her hand in Cassandra’s face. It takes her several seconds to realize that Spero is holding something. A length of jade green fabric embroidered with gold stars. It is about a foot long, the ends and sides tattered and uneven, as if it’s been clumsily cut or ripped.

“What’s this?”

“For Parents Day.” Spero replies shyly, looking down at her feet. “For you.”

From what Cassandra gleans, Spero gives a strip to all of them. Some of them keep it visibly, where Cassandra can take notice: Lavellan braids it into her hair, Blackwall wears his on his arm like a fair maiden’s token, Varric ties his around Bianca, and Vivienne even wears hers as a necklace for an entire afternoon, despite how it clashes with her clothing.

Others keep them secret, and safe, and hidden. She often finds Cole sitting, staring at the length of shorn ribbon in his hands, smiling to himself, or notices Dorian’s eyes goes to his wrist, where he’s tucked it beneath his armband.

Cassandra herself uses it as a bookmark, tucked beneath the pages she so dearly loves, secure and protected. It has never occurred to her, before now, that Spero sees her like a mother. She swallows, and runs a finger along it when she needs to center herself, and hopes that she can do well in this venture.

_Maker give me strength. Let me protect this child._

* * *

A week after Spero hands out her small ribbons, Cassandra walks down the main hall to the sound of raised voices.

She turns a corner and pauses. Two of the tailors are looming over someone, and as she nears, she notices it is Spero.

“—can’t believe it, that dress was worth more than five years of wages. All gone because of some childish fit! Cutting up your dresses because you’re angry is uncivilized!” The tailor looks pointedly at Spero’s ears, and Cassandra’s eyes narrow as she steps forward.

“What is going on?”

“Lady Seeker,” The tailor lowers her eyes in respect, before glancing over at Spero with a frown. “We were told to fit the child for her gown for the next meetings in Halamshiral, but she’s completely ruined it! Cut the entire dress to ribbons!”

Cassandra’s throat tightens. _Oh_.

“I will speak with the Inquisitor,” She finds herself saying, brushing off the tailors with another brusque nod and a warning look. They do not seem entirely mollified but they go, sending a few hasty, backward glances at Spero before disappearing around a corner.

Spero, for her part, is looking down at her shoes.

Cassandra waits for the footsteps of the tailors to trail off into silence before she kneels down to look Spero in the eye. The young elf tries to look away, her cheeks warm. Like she wishes to cry but refuses to do so. Embarrassed at a scolding for something she needn’t apologize for, not truly.  

“…why did you do that?”

Spero glances up, their eyes meet, and she looks down again before shuffling. She finally seems to gather the courage to explain, jaw set stubbornly, as she squares her shoulders and looks Cassandra full on.

“Mother Giselle said that on Parent’s Day, children are supposed to give something to their parents to show them they love them, and that we have to give something important. I heard the tailors talking before, the first time with the dress. They said the embroidery was priceless.”

Cassandra pulls Spero close. “It was a very thoughtful gift.”

“…it was all I had.” Spero murmurs again, and Cassandra thinks she hears her sniffle. She pats her head, feeling the soft curls through her gloves, and her grip tightens.

“It is more than enough.”

* * *

It’s raining. The air is chilled and smells of early winter, and Josephine’s coughs echo in Fortitude’s halls.

Cullen’s voice carries over the pounding rain, the grunts and groans of men training, the clash of steel against steel.

There is the soft murmur of conversation just outside the door, as a pair of Orlesian noblemen and a Magister walk by, voices fading as they walk further away.

Cassandra stares down at the small, tattered length of fabric lying against the latest page of her book. It is not a new one, Varric has not found the time or want to write since Inquisitor Lavellan’s death. He mentions it sometimes, says he will do so, but Cassandra watches him stare down at a blank page most nights, and sigh, and reach for his mug of ale.

Cassandra looks out the window, to where Cullen barks an order at the assembled men, face weary and thinner than she’s seen since he first stopped taking lyrium, covered in mud and rainwater, to the bit of faded and dirty cloth wrapped around the pommel of his sword, and holds back a sob.

_We are coming, Spero._

She closes her book, and places it on the table before heading for the door.

_I swear it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it has been so long since I've updated anything in regards to this story. I was finishing up my Master's Dissertation these last few months, so I was understandably a bit distracted. I also happened to lose track of my notebook which had half of the next chapter already written in it during my move back overseas, but it's been found, and so the next actual chapter shall hopefully be out in a more timely manner. I hope you enjoyed this little bit in the meantime.


	8. You Are Your Father's Daughter

Hey everyone! I'm sorry that I haven't posted anything for so long. I have lots of wonderful plans for Pride's Folly, but the off-the-net world has become exceedingly hectic so it's been put on a bit of a hiatus. My current plans are to try and get a few chapters written in advance and then be able to stagger those so y'all will have something to ready rather than a chapter and then six more months of nothing. I need to do some more in-depth planning for some later events, but hopefully it can happen soon and i'll be able to get those chapters out for everyone! Thank you to everyone that's stuck with me through all of this and is still reading and hoping for more. Sorry it's taking so long.

To try and make up for it, here's a picture of Spero I did a month or so ago, just in case anyone's been really wondering exactly what she looks like. She definitely takes after her dad, even if she hates the fact. 

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one is here! Truthfully, I had half of it finished last week, but that’s because the story was supposed to start with this but then I wanted to introduce it with Ultima Ratio and Exitus Acta Probat instead, and I’m glad I did. Now we get to all the fun stuff, and by fun stuff I obviously mean familial angst, sad flashbacks, and war. 
> 
> Oh, and I decided while writing Exitus Acta Probat that Dad!Solas’ theme song is Jaymes Young’s I’ll Be Good. 
> 
> So currently the plan is that the main story will be chaptered, but I also enjoy writing the tiny little prompts. So I think that those will continue. A lot of them will happen before Pride’s Folly begins, having to deal with Spero’s childhood, perhaps with some POVs from the other members of the Inquisition. In fact, if anyone wants to throw some prompts my way, feel free to do so here or on my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justanartsysideblog)


End file.
